Tell me how to love you

The following morning crept in slow and pale, the kind of gray light that seeps through the cracks in blinds and makes everything feel softer, quieter. But not better.

Mark's phone buzzed on the park bench beside him—just once. A text. He didn't move at first, eyes still closed, breath misting faintly in the morning chill. He wasn't ready to look, not yet. Not when the weight of last night was still pressed against his chest like a stone.

But eventually, curiosity—or hope—got the better of him. He reached for the phone with stiff fingers.

1 New Message – Emma

"I'm sorry."

That was it.

Two words.

Mark stared at the screen, thumb hovering, but he didn't reply. Not yet. Not when everything inside him still felt raw and bruised.

Because what was she sorry for? For letting him walk out? For not stepping between him and her father? For staying silent when the only thing he needed was for her to see him?

The questions burned in his head, and still, the silence remained.

Emma sat curled up by the window, a mug of tea gone cold in her hands, the same sweatshirt she'd thrown on hours ago still clinging to her like a shield. Her phone sat on the armrest beside her, screen dark, no reply.

She kept replaying it all—Mark at the door, the look on his face, the way her father hadn't even raised his voice but had somehow managed to say everything with nothing more than a stare. That was his talent—weaponizing silence, making others feel like intruders in a world they'd never belong to.

Emma hated that part of him.

And yet… she hadn't stopped it.

She hadn't stepped in.

She'd let it happen.

A part of her had frozen—old instincts kicking in, the ones trained to keep the peace, to stay silent, to not make things worse. And in doing so, she'd made everything worse.

Mark didn't go home. Not for a while. He wandered until the city began to come alive—morning runners, barking dogs, coffee carts and impatient honks. He watched the world move like he was on the outside of it, and maybe he was.

Eventually, his legs took him back to his apartment, a small, cluttered studio that suddenly felt even smaller than usual. He kicked off his shoes, dropped his jacket to the floor, and sat on the edge of his bed like a man trying to remember how to be still.

The ice pack was still in his bag, half-leaked and useless now. He tossed it into the sink and stared at the cracked tile for a long time.

His phone buzzed again.

Emma:

"Can we talk?"

Mark exhaled through his nose, ran a hand through his hair. This wasn't the part where he knew what to do. This wasn't the moment of clarity people promised would come after the storm. He was still in it. Still soaked and cold and unsure.

He typed out a reply, deleted it. Tried again. Deleted that too.

Finally, after several long minutes, he typed something simple.

Mark:

"Not right now."

And he hit send.

Later that evening, Emma sat on her bed, knees pulled up to her chest, phone still in hand. The reply had come hours ago, but it lingered in her mind like a bruise she kept pressing.

She didn't blame him.

Not for walking away. Not for the silence. Not even for the distance he was putting between them.

She just wasn't sure if he'd ever want to close that gap again.

Still… she couldn't stop thinking about him. About the way his jaw had been clenched with pain but his eyes had still searched for hers, silently asking her to stand with him. And she hadn't.

She had let the fear win.

But maybe… maybe that was something she could still change.

She opened her notes app. Started typing. Stopped. Then started again.

Emma's Note (Draft, unsent):

I froze. I'm not proud of it. I should've stood between you and him. I should've said something. Anything. But when I'm around my father, it's like all the old versions of me crawl back into the room. The quiet daughter. The one who avoids conflict. The one who keeps the peace at her own expense.

But that's not the version I want you to know. That's not the person I want to be when I'm with you.

I don't know how to fix this. But I'm not done trying. Not if you're not.

She stared at the screen.

Then hit save.

Not send.

Not yet.

But maybe soon.

A/N: Both Mark and Emma are adrift now—but is it too late for them to find each other again?

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Comment below—should Emma hit send?