Page 136 of Wells

His smile fades a little, but not in a wounded way.

“I did.”

“Because of me?”

He drags his thumb along the side of his cup. “I wanted you to have your space. You should be able to walk into your own studio and do your job without wondering if I’m going to be in the back row.”

The answer is so simple it almost hurts. It was him, stepping back without me asking him to.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. The light rain outside the window fills the space, and somehow the silence doesn't make me anxious.

I look at his hands around the coffee cup. I've always loved his strong hands. And now there's no cigarette smell clinging to him, no restless glance toward the door.

"Do you even know where I went for the last six months?"

"I don't. I heard someone at Om mention in the hall after class that you'd been in India. I didn't ask, because I figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me."

"Would you like to hear about it?"

"I'd love that."

I tell him about selling off the life I thought I needed: the apartment, the furniture, my car, and all the little things I used to believe made me anchored.

He doesn't rush me or fill the gaps.

“It took some time for me to get used to having nothing to my name except a small storage unit in New Orleans. But one morning, about two weeks in, I woke up, and it wasn't sitting on my chest anymore. I could breathe under it.”

“What changed?” he asks, low.

I trace the rim of my cup with my thumb. “I think I stopped trying to make everything outside me prove I was safe.”

His eyes stay on mine.

“That sounds obvious when I say it like that,” I add.

“It doesn’t.”

I let out a small breath. “I spent a long time wanting something solid enough to make up for the ground I never had. An apartment, a routine, a man who didn’t leave. I curated a version of myself who had it all handled.”

My throat works.

“India didn’t fix that. It just made me sit still long enough to see what I was doing.”

He nods slowly, like he is putting it somewhere he won't lose it. “I hate that you had to carry that."

I bite the side of my cheek.

“But I’m glad you found some peace working through it,” he says.

Before things get too heavy, I flip it on him. “Your turn. You built that whole place, you quit smoking, and a week and a half ago I watched you stand up in a room full of strangers. Looks like I wasn't the only one digging deep.”

He turns his cup in a slow circle on the table. “I didn’t dig gracefully.”

“Does anyone?”

“I can't speak for anyone else.” His mouth shifts, almost a smile. “After you left, the office got quiet in a way I couldn't blame it on anybody else.”

That lands between us.