The door was open, the night air spilling into the room, carrying the cool scent of rain on stone. She stood in the doorway, her bag in hand, her body angled as if departure were inevitable. She told herself it was over, that this was the moment to walk away. And yet, her heels never turned. She lingered, balanced on the edge of leaving, waiting for something to hold her in place.
He didn’t reach for her. He didn’t block her path. Instead, his voice followed softly, not commanding, but certain—like he already knew she wasn’t going anywhere. The way he leaned back in his chair, relaxed and patient, told her he understood her hesitation better than she did. That patience was magnetic, pulling her without force. She stood there, the cool draft brushing against her skin, caught between the night outside and the warmth inside that she didn’t want to abandon.
Finally, she let the bag slip from her hand, the sound of it dropping quiet but unmistakable. Her heels remained planted, facing forward, yet refusing to step. She turned slowly, the faintest smile curving her lips, as if to admit that her body had already made the decision her mind was too proud to confess. The doorway closed behind her, and with it, the illusion of leaving dissolved. She hadn’t gone because she had never truly intended to.