Page 103 of Lighting the Lamp
“Exactly,” I whisper.
My heart is beating faster now, a flutter of panic beneath my skin. It doesn’t feel like nerves, more like dread that something bad has already happened, and I’m only just catching up.
“So he ghosted you and benched himself? That’s a breakup or a breakdown.” Darius whistles.
“He didn’t ghost me,” I say quickly, but even to my own ears, it sounds like I’m trying to convince myself. “He wouldn’t.”
“You sure?” Michele asks gently but pointedly.
I open my mouth to answer, but no words come out. Because I’m not sure. At least not anymore. This feels like abandonment dressed in politeness. It’s like someone closing a door one inch at a time and hoping you don’t notice until it’s locked. And I thought we were past pretending, the almost, and the what-ifs. So why does it feel like he’s vanishing again, but this time slower, quieter?
“Alise, what are you afraid of?” Ramona nudges my hand.
“That I was wrong. That I believed this was something real when it wasn’t. That he got better—got back on the ice, got his life together—and realized he didn’t need me anymore.”
I stare at her, then at the silver ink on the cards, and the letters blur.
“Yeah, fuck no. There is no way Beau would do something like that. He lov—cares about you. We all know that. Maybe he is having a hard time again, but instead of leaning on you like heused to do, he’s trying to get through it on his own, but don’t you dare try to convince yourself he stopped caring.”
“But why wouldn’t he tell someone?” I whisper.
That’s what keeps circling through my mind. Not the silence. The fact that it’s the man who used to call just to hear my voice before bed. The one who swore he’d show up for me even on the bad days, and now he’s just… gone.
“I’ll text him,” Michele says, already pulling out her phone. “I’ll ask if he’s being held hostage by his own emotional constipation.”
“Give me that.” I grab the phone and hide it under my thigh. “Don’t you dare.”
“We’re trying to help,” Ramona says.
“You guys are no help.” I manage a laugh, but it comes out jagged and wet. My chest feels like a balloon with a slow leak, deflating while I try to smile.
“We’re the emotional SWAT team,” Michele chimes in. “Snacks, sarcasm, and backup. That’s our love language.”
I blink fast, willing the tears to behave as Ramona leans in, her voice barely a whisper now.
“If something was really wrong, don’t you think he would’ve told you?”
That question hits like a punch because I thought he would. I thought we were past secrets and shadows. I thought… maybe this time, I could trust the ground beneath me. But silence is a language I’ve learned too well. And this feels like a goodbye spoken over days instead of him using his words.
“I just… thought we were getting somewhere, building something.”
“You were,” Ramona says, her voice fierce in a way that makes my heart clench.
“Then why does it feel like I’m being slowly erased?”
“Okay. Let’s regroup.” Michele bumps my elbow gently. “Do you want to storm his apartment? Call him out via meme? Or stage a dramatic declaration of discontent at the next home game with matching signs and coordinated outfits?”
I let out a laugh, but it doesn’t stick. It slides right off my tongue and disappears before I can hold on to it. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m overreacting.”
“Even if you are—which I don’t think you are—he still needs to know he’s fucking up,” Ramona says, her voice iron-edged. “Big time.”
“I just…” I drag my thumbnail over the edge of the table. “I don’t want to be that girl. The one who panics the second someone pulls away.”
“Newsflash,” Michele says, softer now, her voice wrapping around me like a blanket that doesn’t ask questions. “You’re the girl who notices when something’s wrong. That’s not panic. That’s your gut telling you to pay attention.”
“And honestly? I trust your intuition more than I trust most people’s Google search histories,” Darius pipes up from the couch, not looking away from the screen.
“Thanks, I think.” I huff a little, the corner of my mouth twitching despite everything.
