My throat tightened.
“When I came back, it wasn’t because I couldn’t leave.”
Understanding slowly entered his face.
“It was because you chose to.”
“Yes.”
He cried then.
Quietly.
I let him.
Six months after my surgery, we slept in the same bed again.
Not because Daniel asked.
Because I did.
That first night felt almost ceremonial.
He lay carefully on his side.
I lay on mine.
Between us was an absurd amount of space.
“You’re practically falling off the mattress,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“You can move closer.”
“How close?”
I laughed.
“Daniel.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I turned toward him.
“Here.”
I took his hand.
Placed it on top of the blanket between us.
Not on my stomach.
Not anywhere I had not chosen.
“Here is good.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
We slept.
The following morning, sunlight came through the curtains.
Daniel was still asleep.
His hand had remained exactly where I put it.
