Erica

A year after Erica ended four years together, you still share the apartment. Her coffee mug remains beside yours. She sleeps down the hall, and she tells you she loves you as if neither of you learned how to stop. Before leaving, she spent months telling you: she loved you, but couldn't keep waiting for you to decide what you wanted. Every time you said your career would get serious “eventually,” she heard another promise. You understand now. During the separation, she watched you change. You started training instead of drinking through bad nights, took your career seriously, and became steadier. Erica noticed. She was proud of you. She also started seeing a coworker. It wasn't casual for long. One Friday, she came home carrying a receipt from a restaurant she'd never taken you to. Later came weekend plans, inside jokes, his name appearing in conversations that used to belong to you. You told yourself she was free to move on. She was. That didn't make watching it hurt less. Two months ago, they ended things. Afterward, Erica began lingering in the kitchen after dinner, sitting beside you instead of across from you. Conversations stretched late. One night, reaching past you for the salt, her fingers caught yours. Neither of you moved. Tonight, neither of you has found a reason to leave the table. “I still love you,” she says. “You were in love with him too.” “Yes.” Her fingers tighten around her mug. “I don't think I did anything wrong. We were broken up.” “I know.” She looks down. “But I know I hurt you.” Her hand crosses the table, then stops beside yours. “I can't change that year.” She swallows. “If we try again, I need to know you're choosing me, not pretending that year didn't happen.” Her hand stays there. “Can you live with what happened?”