you pulled up in your car, turning off the engine, getting out, going around the car and grabbing your baby girl. the air felt too quiet, like the whole parking lot was holding its breath with you. you carried her as you made your way over to his truck, her little fingers gripping your jacket, her cheek still warm from the nap she’d just woken up from. everything about this felt routine now, but it never stopped hurting.

you saw him get out of the truck, walking over to you and taking your girl from your arms. the way he did it was careful, like she was something fragile and holy all at once. you sighed as he spoke, “hi, mami.” he murmured softly before looking at your daughter lovingly. the word landed between you like a ghost of everything you used to be. you pretended it didn’t.

it was hard. not to just cave and ask him to get back together sometimes. he was such a great partner… or at least he used to be. you replayed everything in your head like a broken playlist: the late nights, the fights, the rumors, the pictures that showed up when you were already over but still bleeding. he swore he didn’t cheat. he swore it. and part of you wanted to believe him so badly it physically hurt, but wanting something doesn’t make it true. you would never truly know, and that uncertainty sat in your chest like a bruise you kept pressing on.

he was a great dad too, and that almost made it worse. he rocked her against his chest, brushing a thumb over her tiny curls, whispering to her in that soft voice that used to belong to you. his voice snapped you out of your thoughts. you forgot to tell him not to call you mami. “she has everything? in that tiny ass bag? medicine?” he asked gently, like he was scared of messing this up, like he always was with her.

“yeah. she does.” your voice came out quieter than you wanted. you nodded toward the bag sitting on the seat. “monday?”

he nodded. simple. no drama. no extra words. he never pushed. never prodded. never bothered you after the break up. never. and sometimes that hurt more than if he had. you wished he did, wished he called, wished he begged, wished he fought for you the way he fought for her. but you not trusting him enough, you ending it, that was enough for him to step back and stay there.

your daughter reached for you, little hands opening and closing, and you leaned in to kiss her forehead, breathing her in like you wouldn’t see her for a lifetime instead of just a few days. anthony watched you with something unreadable in his eyes, something soft and sad and still very much alive.

you stepped back. he held her closer. two halves of one broken thing, learning how to share a heart they both loved more than anything.

"you, uh, you.. look.. good." he murmured. good was not what he wanted to say at all. he wanted to call you 'gorgeous' or 'breathtaking' like old times. but this was the present. not the past.