She said it casually, like it meant nothing. “Don’t wait for me.” Her voice carried that practiced nonchalance, the kind people use when they want to end a conversation before it begins. He nodded, because what else could he do? She turned, stepping toward the door with the certainty of someone who has already decided to leave. For a moment, he believed her. He thought it was final, thought the distance between them had been carved out cleanly.
But then she stopped. Not long, not enough to be obvious, but enough. One hand resting on the frame, her shoulders angled toward the night, and yet her body didn’t cross into it. He noticed the slight lift of her chin, the way her breath seemed to hold itself in place, as though waiting for something to interrupt the silence. She didn’t look back—perhaps because looking back would betray too much. But in the hesitation, in that suspended second, he felt the weight of what she didn’t say press against the room like a secret.
When she finally stepped through, the sound of her heels softened into distance, but the pause remained louder than her departure. It told him she hadn’t meant it—not fully. That somewhere beneath her insistence lay a different wish, one she didn’t allow herself to voice. And though the door closed, though the room grew still, he sat frozen, remembering the way her body lingered in the threshold. A pause can last longer than a touch; sometimes it lingers all night.