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I’d waited because I wanted certainty. I wanted them committed enough that the truth couldn’t take everything away. That wasn’t love. It was an attempt to remove their ability to leave.

I stopped walking.

A small house stood across the street. Pale yellow siding. White trim. A narrow front porch with two rocking chairs and a pot of red flowers near the steps. A compact sedan sat in the driveway beside Daniel’s truck.

I recognized it before I understood how I had arrived there. Missy’s new house. I had seen photographs. She had sent me the address twice.

I stood on the sidewalk, sweaty and disoriented, staring at the front door. The house wasn’t grand. It wasn’t the polished symbol of success I’d built in my mind.

One porch board needed repainting. A baby toy sat abandoned near the steps. The flowerpot had weeds growing around one side.

Still, it was lovely. Lived in.

Loved.

Missy had everything I claimed not to want. A spouse who knew her. A career with benefits and maternity leave. A home built around shared plans. A baby. A future that had moved forward while I kept circling the same fears.

Jealousy rose so cleanly that I could no longer rename it.

I had told myself Missy changed. She became consumed by marriage. Then pregnancy. Then motherhood.

She had no room for me. The baby pictures were annoying. Her invitations felt condescending. Her questions about my life felt intrusive.

All of that had been easier than admitting the truth.

I realized, with a sudden, painful clarity, that the distance between Missy and me hadn’t been her fault at all. I had isolated myself because her progress exposed my own stagnation, and it was easier to hide than to admit I was struggling.

The knowledge settled over every missed call and unanswered message. I had punished her for building a life I wanted.

When had I gotten so good at lying to myself? Clearly before I started lying to other people.

A laugh escaped me, broken and humorless. I stood across from her house for several minutes, arguing with myself.

I was sweaty. I smelled terrible. I had no clue what to say. Missy might be busy. The baby could be sleeping. Daniel might not want company.

Every excuse had the same familiar purpose. Delay vulnerability until the opportunity disappeared.

I crossed the street. My legs felt heavier approaching the porch than they had during the run. I climbed the steps and lifted my hand. For one second, I considered turning away.

Then I knocked.

I heard movement inside.

A dog barked once and was immediately hushed. Footsteps approached. The door opened. Missy stood there, wearing black leggings and a loose gray shirt with a pale stain near one shoulder. Her hair had been pulled into a knot, and exhaustion showed beneath her eyes.

She held the baby against her hip. Owen stared at me with round cheeks and one damp fist in his mouth.

Missy’s face changed from confusion to disbelief. “Sloane?”

I had imagined this reunion many times. In every version, I looked better.

More successful.

More composed.

I had a reason for coming and enough confidence to control the conversation. Instead, I stood on her porch drenched in sweat, eyes swollen from several days of crying, with no prepared speech.

That was probably the point.