You carried that unfinished sentence into the night, turning it over like a splinter you couldn’t quite pull free. The next day, his folded note waited at your door, the handwriting careful, almost hesitant. Inside, he admitted he’d pushed past your comfort, that his joke had been a shield for embarrassment and entitlement he didn’t want to name. Reading it, you felt something unclench—not forgiveness exactly, but possibility.
Walking over to his yard, you found words you hadn’t planned to say. You talked about the thin line between being helpful and being used, how easy it is to assume someone’s “fine with it” when they’re simply afraid of conflict. He listened, really listened, and the air shifted. The cord was gone, yet its echo remained—a quiet agreement that respect has to be chosen, not assumed, and that peace is a boundary, not an accident.
