Leaving the choice with me.
My throat tightens.
Because I understand now what it cost him to say those words.
“I know,” I say quietly.
My voice sounds different. Stronger.
I swallow.
“I believe you.”
The silence that follows isn’t fragile anymore. It’s full. Steady.
There’s something else I need to say.
Something I’ve been holding back, not because I didn’t know it was true, but because saying it would make it real in a way I couldn’t undo.
I close my eyes briefly.
“I think…” I stop, correcting myself. Honesty deserves precision. “No. I know.”
I exhale slowly.
“I’m falling for you too.”
The words leave without resistance.
Without fear.
Because they’re no longer a question.
“More than before,” I add quietly. “Even with all of this.”
Maybe because of it.
Because love isn’t built in perfect moments.
It’s built here, in the truth of things, in the uncertainty, in the decision to stay present even when it would be easier to retreat.
He exhales softly, and I can hear the smile in it.
“I want to prove it,” he says.
I frown, even though he can’t see me.
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I want to,” he repeats, and there’s no urgency in his voice. Just quiet certainty.
“Come to dinner with me. Tonight.”
The offer doesn’t feel like repair. It feels like continuation. Like he’s stepping forward instead of standing still.
“That sounds perfect,” I say, and I mean it. “But I can’t. I have to go to Manchester in the morning. Flower market. I need to leave at four.”
He makes a small sound of understanding.