I was outside in the car.
She texted me —
just a few more minutes —
and then:
could you go get us some coffee?
So I did.
Of course I did.
I found out later.
Not from her —
from the things that didn't add up,
the small inconsistencies
that collect quietly
until you can't ignore them anymore.
I asked her directly.
Her story changed
in the telling.
He was pushy.
She got tired of saying no.
Let it happen
because it was easier than fighting.
She said she was thinking of me
the whole time.
I didn't know what to do
with any of that.
The closeness of it.
The complexity of it.
The fact that I had been
right outside
getting coffee
while she thought of me.
I held her through all of it anyway.
Sat with her in the parts
that didn't have clean edges.
Named it when she couldn't —
not to define it for her
but because she needed
somewhere to put it.
I carried it too.
In my sleep.
In my body.
In the way I moved
through ordinary days
when nothing was wrong
and I couldn't explain
why it didn't feel that way.
And years later
she told me
I had made it about myself.
I have turned that over
for a long time.
I gave her the words
for her own wound.
And she sharpened them
and handed them back.