There it was again, that wound reopened by a word he didn’t even realize was a knife.
“I wasn’t asking for perfection,” I said quietly. “Just a yes. Just certainty.”
“I know,” he whispered. “And I wish I could have given that to you.”
“Why couldn’t you?” I asked.
He exhaled shakily.
“Because I was scared. Scared of choosing wrong. Scared of messing up. Scared of everything, really.”
“Were you scared of choosing me?” I asked.
He didn’t answer immediately. When he finally looked at me, his eyes were glossy.
“I don’t know,” he said.
That hurt more than “no,” more than “not yet,” more than “I’m not ready,” because uncertainty after four years felt like the deepest rejection of all.
“I wanted you to be sure,” I said. “I needed you to be sure.”
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