“What’s wrong?” I ask, quietly. Not sternly. Not coldly. Almost gently. As if her sadness itself has altered the gravity in the room.
She doesn’t answer immediately. She just shudders, letting the tears fall freely, her body curled slightly inward as if it could shrink beneath the weight of her own despair.
And for the first time, I hesitate. I’m supposed to be the one in control. I’m supposed to protect, to contain, to dominate this situation with precision. But all I want now is to understand how something so small, so human, can unravel me without a single word.
The room is silent except for her quiet, broken sobs. I stay there, kneeling, letting her grief fill the space, letting her know—without speaking more than I have to—that I see it, that I am present, and that nothing she’s feeling will be punished here.
Not yet.
“What’s wrong, Raelyn?” I ask again.
Her name sounds different this time. Softer.
She inhales shakily, like the air itself hurts. When she speaks, her voice cracks straight down the middle.
“I…I always promised myself….” Her voice is just a whisper, but it cuts through the silence. “I wouldn’t marry unless…unless my father was there to walk me down the aisle.”
I stay silent, letting her words fill the space.
“I waited for him…for years,” she continues, voice breaking. “I kept telling myself he was alive somewhere…that he was coming back….”
Her hands clench in her lap, nails digging into her palms. “I imagined…when I finally married…he’d be there. It would be…joy. A moment after all the emptiness.”
I swallow, my jaw tight. “And…” I prompt carefully.
She lifts her head, eyes wet and red, staring at me with something raw and exposed. “And instead…it was silence. Nothing. No one. No family. No…him.”
I inhale slowly, resisting the urge to speak. “Raelyn….”
“Don’t,” she whispers fiercely, trembling. “I don’t want you to explain. I…I just….” Her voice cracks, and she looks away, covering her face again. “I just wanted him. Even for one moment.”
Her hands tremble in her lap as she wipes at her cheeks. “Since…since he disappeared…my life’s felt hollow,” she murmurs, voice barely audible. “Like I’m frozen in place while the world…keeps moving without me.”
She swallows hard, voice breaking. “And now…now I feel like I’ve been robbed of the one moment I hoped would anchor me again.”
I feel something twist inside me—guilt, possession, something unfamiliar and unwelcome.
Instinctively, my hand lifts. My fingers hover near her cheek, stiff at first, mechanical almost. I touch her skin. My thumb brushes a tear away.
She doesn’t flinch. She just stares at me: wide-eyed, raw, and trembling.
The softness surprises me.
“I…I…” she starts, voice breaking again, then falters.
I remain kneeling, still, letting her grief fill the space without speaking more than I have to. Her gaze lifts again, meeting mine with a helpless, wounded expression. She looks at me as if she wants to hate me, but the anger wavers, fragile, like it could shatter at any second.
The air between us tightens, thickening. I feel it coil, impossible and magnetic. She leans forward without meaning to. I lean in because I cannot stop myself.
Our mouths meet.
No force. No power. Just aching, emotional pull—like gravity has rewritten itself around us.
Her lips are soft. Fragile. Hesitant. And yet there’s a trembling demand in them, a plea I can’t ignore.
I press my hands gently against her face, steadying, comforting, grounding her even as my own chest constricts.
A soft, broken sigh escapes her, disappearing into the small space between our lips. I can feel the heat of her skin beneath my palms, a stark contrast to the sudden chill of the room. This isn’t like before; the frantic, raw hunger has shifted into something far more dangerous—something that feels like a beginning.