Page 126 of Fault Lines
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That evening, Nate’s apartment felt smaller than usual, the edges of everything sharpened by fatigue and the lingering echo of old arguments. The only light came from a single lamp in the corner, casting a pale, reluctant glow that left the rest of the room half-submerged in shadow. The black sofa—the one piece of real furniture in the whole place—had sunk a little, its fabric dark against the geometric shapes of the rug.
Nate sat on the edge of the cushion, elbows braced on his knees, his fingers steepled as if he was prepping for a chess match or a firing squad. I hovered near the window, pretending to watch the traffic below, counting the headlights as they slid past, each one a possible escape route.
We’d hardly spoken since the park. The air between us was tight as a drum.
Eventually, I turned around, clutching the sleeves of my sweater. I wanted to say something—ask what we should do for dinner, suggest a movie, anything that would push the day back toward normal. But before I could, Nate’s voice cut through the room, low and frayed.
“I can’t keep watching you cling to him,” he said. He didn’t look at me when he said it.
I flinched, the words landing with more force than I’d expected.
He continued, still staring at the floor. “It’s like you’re afraid to let go. Like if you do, you’ll float off and never come back down.” He let out a brittle laugh. “Maybe you would.”
I shook my head, but he was already moving, standing up and pacing to the far side of the room. The lamp painted him in fragments—shoulders hunched, jaw set, fists flexing in and out.
“I’m not,” I started, but he cut me off.
“Yes, you are.” He stopped in the middle of the rug, turned to face me. His eyes were dark, tired, but hard as stone. “You keep one foot out the door, just in case he calls. You talk about him in your sleep, did you know that?” He smiled, but it was all teeth. “Sometimes you say his name. Sometimes you cry.”
I felt my face go hot. “That’s not fair.”
He closed the distance between us in three long strides, then stopped just short of touching me. “You’re right. It’s not.”
We stood there, toe to toe, the only sound the hum of the lamp and the distant wail of sirens.
Nate’s voice softened, just a little. “I need you to choose, Livi. I need to know if you’re here because you want to be, or just because you’re scared of being alone.”
My heart hammered so loudly I was sure he could hear it. I looked down at my hands, at the way my fingers twisted together. The photograph in my pocket felt like a hot coal.
“I do want to be here,” I said, but it came out as a whisper.
He took a step back, shoulders sagging. “Then tell me. Show me. Because right now, it feels like I’m fighting a ghost, and I can’t win against something that’s already dead.”
I tried to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. My eyes stung, and I blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall.
Nate let his hand hover in the air, as if he was about to reach for me, then thought better of it. He let it drop, the motion heavy and final.
“I’m not asking you to forget him,” he said. “I’m just asking you to be honest with me. With yourself.”
He turned away, crossed the room to the sofa, and sat down on the edge again, this time hunched even lower, his head in his hands.
I stayed by the window, watching my own reflection in the glass, fractured and ghostly in the lamplight.
We sat like that for what felt like forever, the silence thick and suffocating.
When I finally spoke, it was so quiet I almost didn’t hear it myself.
“I don’t know how to let go,” I said.
Nate didn’t answer, but I saw his shoulders go rigid, the muscles in his neck tense.
The room held its breath.
In the end, there was no resolution, no neat tying off of loose ends. Just two people, orbiting each other in the dark, too scared to move closer, too stubborn to pull apart.
I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand, and when I looked over, Nate was staring at me, his gaze steady and unblinking.
