Thom’s voice is the softest when he tells you it’s fine, but his mouth tightens as if he’s holding back something he shouldn’t say. You’re in his apartment, surrounded by the unfinished chords of a song he’s been trying to complete for weeks. He’s sitting on the floor, the guitar resting on his knees, and you’re lying on the couch, barefoot with a cup of tea gone cold in your hands.

“I don’t understand why you can’t stay,” he says, and it’s not the first time. Or the second. Or the tenth.

You don’t answer. Because if you look at him, if you dare to meet those eyes, you’ll know he’s waiting for something you can’t give him. Something you can’t be.

“Thom...”

“I know, I know.” He sighs and sets the guitar aside, letting his head fall back against the wall. He’s the kind of man who always seems exhausted, as if he hasn’t slept well in years. Or maybe it’s just what you do to him. What you’re doing to him.

Because Thom is good. He’s attentive, patient, brutally honest. He listens when you complain about work, holds you when you feel small and insignificant. And you... you give him excuses. Small, elegant excuses wrapped in half-made lies. Like Carrie with Aiden, except here, you’re Carrie, and that’s the worst part.

“I just need a little more time,” you say, even though you both know it’s not true. It never has been.

He laughs, but it’s a bitter sound. He stands up, hands in his pockets, and walks over to you. He looks down at you, his eyes searching for something he still thinks he might find. And you grip the cup tightly, as if that could keep everything from falling apart.

“You know? I think I could wait my whole life,” he says. And that’s the saddest part. Because he really could.