He said, “I don’t know.”
“Try.”
“I wanted to.” He’d sent them simply because he wanted to. Meanwhile I’d stopped asking him for dinners, phone-free evenings, weekends away, or real conversations. I told myself love became quieter with time, mistaking routine for safety. Daniel had been looking forward to someone else.
I asked, “Do you love her?”
“I care about her.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I don’t know what it is.” His uncertainty finally clarified what no explanation could change: he’d devoted time, secrecy, affection, private jokes, and those
