A text from a friend: Did you and Valentine get into a fight?

A text from my mom: Sweetie, coming home for dinner next week? I'll make ribs.

I replied to each one.

I'm fine.

We didn't fight.

Yeah, I'll be there Saturday.

When I was done, I opened the photo of that wilting rose and stared at it for a long time.

Then I deleted the post.

My phone buzzed again.

Unknown number. This time, a call.

I picked up.

"What the hell do you want?" Valentine's voice, raw, like he'd smoked through an entire pack.

I didn't say anything.

"I've been out looking for you for hours. I'm soaked to the bone, you won't pick up, you won't text back. What do you want from me?"

I still didn't say anything.

"Say something."

"Say what?"

He choked on that.

"Tell me what you want." His voice dropped low. "Just tell me. I'll give it to you."

I looked out the window. The rain was still falling. A film of condensation clung to the glass.

"You've always known what I want," I said. "But after ten years, you never gave me any of it."

He went quiet.

"Valentine. Do you love me?"

Silence.

Rain. Breathing. Somewhere far away, the sound of a car plowing through standing water.

"Why are you asking me that?"

"Just answer the question."

More silence.

Then he said, "I love you."

Quiet. Quick. Like the words had been pried out of him.

I heard those three words and realized I felt nothing.

"Then why didn't you ever say it?" I asked. "Ten years. Why couldn't you say it to me?"

"I... couldn't get the words out."

"What about someone else?"

"What?"

"Rosalie," I said. "Could you get the words out for her?"

He panicked. "What does she have to do with this? I already told you, she's just—"

"Think carefully before you answer." I cut him off. "Valentine, think very carefully. Have you ever told her you loved her?"

He went silent.

"Even if it wasn't love," I said. "That you liked her. That you felt sorry for her. That you wanted to protect her. Did you ever say any of that?"

Rain.

Breathing.

Silence.

"She saved my life when we were kids." His voice came out muffled, sudden. "I was eight. I fell into a river and she jumped in after me. She nearly drowned too."

I closed my eyes.

"So I..." he said. "If something happens to her, I can't just do nothing."

"I know."

"Then why are you—"

"Valentine." I opened my eyes and stared at the fog on the glass. "She saved you when you were eight. I met you when I was twenty-four."

He said nothing.

"She saved your life, and you've carried that debt for twenty years." I said. "I gave you ten years of mine. Did you ever carry that?"

"I did."

"Carried what, exactly?"

He went silent again.

"You remembered that I cooked for you. That I did your laundry. That I kept the apartment clean." I said. "You remembered that I waited for you, no matter how late you came home. You remembered that I never made a scene, never started a fight, never asked you for anything."

"..."

"You remembered that I was easy." I said. "That I was low-maintenance. That I'd always be there, never needing your attention, never needing you to worry, never making you afraid of losing me."

The rain eased.

"But you don't know what my favorite food is," I said. "You don't know when I get off work. You don't know that I'm afraid of the dark, afraid of thunder, afraid of being alone. You don't know that every time I sat in this apartment waiting for you, waiting past midnight, waiting until I fell asleep, all I'd get was a text saying you weren't coming home."

"I—"

"You don't even know what today is." I said. "November seventeenth. Ten years since we got together. I waited a whole year for this day. I thought you'd remember. I thought you'd surprise me—even just a word, even just a text."

He went quiet.

"Instead, what I got was her sitting on your lap." I let out a short laugh. "Great surprise. Really outdid yourself."

"Don't do this—"

"Valentine." I said. "You just told me you love me. So tell me. What do you love about me?"

He froze.

I waited.

The rain stopped.

"What do you love about me?" I asked again. "That I'm pretty? That I'm good to you? That I'm obedient? That I never cause you trouble?"

Still nothing.

"You don't love me." I said. "You love easy. You love convenient. You love that no matter how you treat me, I'll never leave."

"I don't—"

"You do." I said. "You always have. You knew I wouldn't leave, so when you said we weren't going public, we didn't go public. When you said you were busy, I behaved. When you were with her, I waited. You knew I couldn't bear to lose you."

I took a deep breath.

"But now I can."

His voice changed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—" I looked out the window. The moon had come out, pale and half-veiled by clouds. "I'm done waiting. This isn't anger. This isn't a tantrum. This isn't me waiting for you to come coax me back."

"You—"

"Valentine, I'm tired."

I hung up.

Then I powered off my phone and tossed it on the bed.

The apartment was quiet.

In the stillness after the rain, I could hear water dripping from the eaves below, slow and steady, one drop at a time.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the pile of his clothes on the floor, at the scarf I'd crumpled into a ball, at this room I'd lived in for three years, waiting for him for three.

Then I stood up and started packing.

I packed slowly.

Not because I couldn't let go. Because I didn't know where to start.

Everything in this apartment—his, mine—had gotten tangled together long ago.

The drawer full of charging cables. Which ones were his? Which ones were mine?

The lip balm on the nightstand. He always said it was girly, refused to touch it, but every winter when his lips cracked, he'd sneak it on when he thought I wasn't looking.

The heavy comforter on the top shelf of the closet. My mom had shipped it from back home. He said it was too heavy, that it felt like being crushed. But every time I got sick, he'd dig it out himself and tuck it around me.

I crouched there, a charging cable in my fist, suddenly unable to figure out which suitcase it belonged in.

The lock clicked.

I stiffened. Turned toward the bedroom door.

Footsteps. His. Wet ones, squelching with every step—his shoes must have been full of water.

Two seconds of silence in the living room.

Then the bedroom door swung open.

Valentine stood in the doorway, soaked through. His hair hung in dark, wet strands plastered to his forehead. His white dress shirt clung to his chest, so transparent I could see the outline of skin beneath. He was breathing hard, like he'd sprinted up the stairs.

His eyes found me. Then the charging cable in my hand. Then the open suitcase at my feet. Then the pile of clothes on the floor he'd stepped on coming in.

He didn't speak.

Neither did I.

The night after the rain was so quiet I could hear every breath he took—heavy, ragged, one after another.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

His voice was raw. Scraped down to nothing.

I didn't answer. I dropped the cable into the suitcase, stood up, walked to the closet, and kept pulling things out.

He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed my wrist.

His hand was cold. Wet. His fingertips were shaking.

"I asked you what you're doing."

I looked down at his hand.

That hand. I'd held it a thousand times. Crossing the street. Tucked into his coat pocket in winter. Draped over my waist while we slept.

I knew every line on that palm, every degree of its warmth, the shape of every knuckle.

But now, with his fingers clamped around my wrist, it felt like a stranger's hand.

"Let go," I said.

He didn't. He squeezed tighter.

"Look at me."

I didn't move.

"I said look at me."

I raised my head.

His eyes were red. Whether from the rain or something else, I couldn't tell. Stubble shadowed his jaw, patches he hadn't finished shaving that morning. His lips were cracked, a thin film of dry skin peeling along the edges.

He stared at me. His gaze traveled down from my face to the suitcase, then to the pile of clothes on the floor, and finally back up.

"You're serious?" he asked.

I said nothing.

"You're serious?" he asked again. His voice changed, like something had lodged in his throat. "Over this? Over this bullshit?"

"Bullshit?" I repeated.

"Yes, bullshit!" His voice shot up. "She sat on my lap for a second, so what? I've known her for over twenty years. If there was ever anything between us, it would've happened already. You think it'd wait until now? Is this really worth all this? Is it?"

I looked at him.

He was breathing hard, chest heaving, and the hand gripping mine was shaking.

"Valentine," I said. "You're hurting me."

He froze for a second. His grip loosened, but he didn't let go.

"I'm not letting go," he said. "The second I do, you'll run."

"Can't you just let me explain?" His voice dropped, carrying a softness I'd never heard before. "She had too much to drink tonight. The guys were egging her on. She plops down on my lap and what am I supposed to do? Shove her off? Then how do our families face each other after that?"

"You could've stood up before she sat down," I said.

He went still.

"You could've said something when they started egging her on. Told them she has a boyfriend, told them to knock it off." I kept going. "You could've shifted away when she leaned on your shoulder. You could've, when you saw me standing there, done something other than frown and look away. You could've gotten up. Walked over. Taken my hand."

He didn't move.

"You didn't do any of that," I said. "You didn't do a single thing, Valentine."

His lips parted. Nothing came out.

"Ten years," I said. "I waited five years for you to go public with us. I waited three years for you to introduce me to your friends. I waited ten entire years to hear you say 'I love you.'"

"I said it," he blurted. "Just now. On the phone. I said it."

"Because I asked," I said. "I asked, and only then did you say it. If I hadn't asked, you never would have."

He went quiet.

"You just asked me if this was really worth all this?" I said. "Valentine, let me tell you whether it is."

I wrenched my hand free.

He didn't grab for it again. His arm dropped to his side, soaking wet, dripping water onto the floor.

"I was twenty-four when I met you. You were twenty-six," I said. "It was my friend's birthday. A bar. You were at the next table over and came to ask for a light. I didn't have one, but you walked away with my drink."

He watched me.

"Later you added me on WhatsApp. Asked me what that drink was called," I said. "I told you it was a Long Island Iced Tea. You asked if it was any good. I said it was fine, just hits you later."

"I remember," he said.

"What do you remember?"

"I remember the white dress you wore that day." His voice was low, almost reverent. "I remember your hair was curly, and when you smiled, there was a dimple on the right side. I remember turning back to look at you as I left, and you happened to be looking at me too."

I froze.

"I remember all of it," he said. "Every single detail. What you were drinking, what you were wearing, what you said. I remember everything."