I lasted eleven days before Wren cornered me.
Not literally.
She sent one message.
Wren: Are you in love with someone?
I stared at it for so long my screen dimmed.
Me: What makes you ask that?
Wren: Because you've been sad.
Me: That's your evidence?
Wren: And you keep looking at me like you're about to tell me something.
I put my phone facedown.
Picked it up.
Facedown again.
There are moments when your entire life becomes a choice between two sentences.
Yes.
No.
I chose a third.
Me: Would it change anything if I was?
She called immediately.
I didn't answer.
She called again.
Then came the message.
Wren: Please talk to me.
I answered on the third call.
Neither of us said hello.
Finally she whispered, “Is it me?”
My eyes closed.
The silence answered before I could.
“Oh,” Wren said.
One tiny word.
I had imagined confessing to her a thousand ways.
None of them sounded like silence.
“I'm sorry,” I said.
“For what?”
“For making this complicated.”
“You didn't.”
“I did.”
“You can't apologize for feeling something.”
“Maybe not. But I can choose what I do with it.”
She went quiet.
Then, so softly I almost missed it, she said, “What if you're not the only one who's confused?”
My heart did something cruel: it hoped.
I hated it for that.
“Wren.”
“I know.”
“No. Listen to me.”
She did.
“I love you enough not to ask you for an answer while you belong to a life you've already chosen.”
Her breathing shook.
“That's a horrible thing to say.”
“Why?”
“Because it's exactly why I love you.”
Neither of us spoke after that.
There are some sentences that change everything even when nothing is allowed to change.