“I think you were.”
Not out of dishonesty.
Out of kindness.
Because that’s who she is.
I press my thumb into the edge of the counter, grounding myself.
“I need you to understand something,” I say.
I don’t usually explain myself. Not like this. Not out loud. But she deserves more than silence and instinct.
“I don’t like attention,” I tell her. “I never have.”
That part is simple.
“When people look at me, when they expect something from me… I become aware of everything. Where I’m standing. What I’m doing. What it means.”
I hesitate, searching for words that don’t come naturally.
“And being with you… people notice something different about me. They like to gossip and new things shift you to the centre of attention.”
Somehow it doesn’t feel like I’m explaining myself well.
I exhale slowly.
“So I can only assume,” I continue, “that when I stepped away, it wasn’t from you. It was from that feeling. From being watched.”
The admission sits between us.
Uncomfortable.
Necessary.
“It has nothing to do with you,” I say.
“You are…” I stop.
The words feel too large to carry safely but I carry them anyway.
“You’re beautiful,” I say.
The truth of it steadies me.
“You’re extraordinary.”
I close my eyes briefly.
“And I’m falling for you.”
The words leave without permission.
“Very hard.”
I grip the counter harder, suddenly aware of how much I’ve given away.
Not because I regret it.