termites of the page

She’d kissed him like she didn’t want him to go. Like he didn’t have to.

And for a split second, he’d believed that. That he could stay. That the whole machine could stop for a day, or a week, or a year. That if he said he wasn’t going, someone else would carry it — the gear, the weight, the myth of him.

But instead he kissed her forehead and shut the door gently behind him, like that would make it hurt less.

He hadn’t made it to the end of the block before pulling out his phone.

🫀:

I can still come back

say the word and i’ll climb through the fucking window

He didn’t send it.

She was probably still in the kitchen, still barefoot, still trying to pretend she wasn’t crying even though he’d seen the way her chin trembled when she said, “Go do your thing, baby, I’ll be here.”

She always said that. I’ll be here.

And he believed her. Every time.

That was the problem. He believed her. He believed in her.

And it made every mile between them feel like a fucking wound.