Page 28 of If He Hadn't Cheated
He walks me all the way to my door. I don’t invite him up because isn’t the type you sleep with and forget in the morning.
And I know he won’t ask.
He just looks at me and says, “Try to eat something tomorrow.”
I nod. He turns to leave. But before he gets far, I say, “Knox?”
He stops.
I don’t know what I’m trying to say. So I settle for the only thing that feels true. “Thank you.”
He nods once.
Then he disappears down the street like smoke in the wind.
When I get inside, I drop my keys, kick off my shoes, and collapse onto the couch. I stare at the ceiling and count my breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
The tears still hurt and as much as I try to not let them fall, they come anyway.
12
Iwake before the alarm. No dreams. No night sweats. Just quiet.
That alone feels unfamiliar but deep down I know why. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet, but the sky is soft outside my window. There’s a pale blue stretch between buildings that feels like a breath.
I roll onto my side and stare at the wall. I could stay here all day. Wrapped in sheets that still smell like yesterday. Safe in this stillness that doesn’t demand anything from me. But I know the longer I hide from the world, the harder it gets to return to it.
I sit up and stretch. My muscles ache, but not from anything specific. Just the weight of surviving another night.
I take a shower. A long one. I wash my hair. Shave my legs. Brush my teeth for longer than I need to. I towel off and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Still tired. Still hollow around the eyes. But alive. And not hungover.
And not just technically.
I get dressed in real clothes, not all black I’ve been wearing like armor. Just jeans and a soft black sweater. Comfortable. Presentable.
I check my phone.
Knox: You made it through another night. That counts.
I don’t respond right away.
Instead, I slip on my boots and grab my keys. I arrive at the Velvet Room. The place is still dark. The cleaning crew just left. There’s a strange comfort in seeing it like this, no flashing lights, no thumping bass, no blurred faces leaning over the bar begging for attention.
Just space.
And silence.
I turn on the lamps behind the counter and start prepping. I cut lemons, refill napkin holders, wipe down the taps. My hands remember what to do, even if my mind drifts.
Jazz comes in around four. She raises an eyebrow when she sees me already working. “You okay?” she asks.
I shrug. “Define okay.”
