Page 27 of Smoke Signals

That’s it. No accusation or guilt tucked between the lines. Just concern, steady and uncomplicated.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, my shoulders slumping forward. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it shifts.

I type back and delete it twice before settling on something that doesn’t sound like I’m apologizing myself into the ground.

Me: I didn’t handle it well. I should’ve said something instead of freezing.

The dots appear almost immediately, then disappear, then appear again. I picture him wherever he is, maybe sitting on his couch, maybe standing in his kitchen with his phone in his hand, thinking about his words the way I’m thinking about mine.

Stellan: You don’t have to explain anything you’re not ready to. I just want you to know I’m not upset.

That hits harder than anger would have.

I shift on the couch, my back pressing into the cushions, my toes curling against the rug. My apartment smells like home, like responsibility, like a life I’ve built carefully and intentionally. Letting someone else touch that still feels risky.

Me: Alaska’s been signing your name nonstop. She misses you.

I don’t add anything else. I don’t say that she signs his name with the same seriousness she uses when she signs mine, I don’t say that she watched the door all week. I don’t say that I see how much steadier she feels when he’s here, how his presence gives her something solid to lean against.

Stellan: I miss her too.

The word ‘miss’ lands softly, but it lands.

I rub my hand over my face, dragging my palm down slowly, grounding myself in the sensation. I can hear Alaska’s breathing through the baby monitor, slow and even. She’s out cold, her body finally at rest after a day of holding things together the way only kids do.

Me: I don’t want to mess this up for her.

There it is. The thing I’ve been circling all week without naming.

Stellan: I know.

Stellan: And I won’t do anything that puts her in the middle.

I stare at that for a long time. The city noise filters in through the windows, distant and constant, a reminder that the world keeps moving whether I’m ready or not.

Me: Can we talk more? Maybe on a call or in person? Not tonight, but soon. It doesn’t feel right to do it all over text.

There’s a pause this time. Long enough that I set the phone down on my thigh and stare at the blank TV screen across the room. I can see my reflection faintly in the dark glass, shoulders hunched, jaw tight, eyes a little too sharp.

When the phone buzzes again, I flinch.

Stellan: Yeah. Whenever you want.

I swallow. My mouth feels dry.

Me: Maybe tomorrow around 9pm? Just on the phone.

Stellan: Tomorrow works.

That’s it. No push for more, no suggestion of coming over, and no reading between lines.

It's the least demanding message anyone's sent me in a year.

I set the phone on the coffee table and lean back, closing my eyes. My body feels heavy in that specific way that comes after adrenaline drains out of your system, leaving everything sluggish and sore. I can still feel the echo of his shoulder under my hands from last week, the warmth, the way my fingers knew exactly where to press without thinking.

I shouldn’t still be thinking about that.

I stand up and move through the apartment, tidying without really needing to. I rinse the last mug in the sink, dry it, and set it in the cabinet. I straighten the throw blanket on the couch, then stop halfway through and leave it crooked. I’m done pretending everything needs to be perfect.