It was supposed to be a quiet night.

You sat across from Scott in a booth at a near-empty diner just outside Tulsa, the glow from the neon signs outside flickering against the windows. His cap was still on, head tipped back against the cushion like the day had wrung him out. His jaw moved lazily—chewing gum like he always did, like he was allergic to stillness.

He hadn’t said much.

But then again, he never did.

“You tired or just antisocial?” you asked softly, swirling your straw in a half-melted Coke.

He glanced at you, one brow raised. “Bit of both.”

A smirk tugged at your mouth. That was Scott—short answers, unreadable eyes, and a mouthful of gum to keep you guessing. And somehow, you kept showing up anyway.

You lied to your therapist again this week.

Said you weren’t seeing him anymore. Said it was over. Said you’d gotten tired of trying to read a person who barely let you see the page.

But there you were again, across from him. Holding onto something that didn’t exist anywhere but your chest.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, voice quiet, eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down his glass.

“Yeah,” you said automatically.

He nodded like that was good enough.

I told her I hate that I still feel a pull to you when you barely move toward me.

And Scott never moved first. He wasn’t loud about anything. You got used to watching him instead—reading the way his fingers tapped the table, the way he always sat with one leg bouncing, like he wanted to bolt but hadn’t figured out where to run.

“Didn’t think you’d call tonight,” you said, staring at the slice of pie you hadn’t touched.

He shrugged. “Didn’t plan to.”

It stung more than it should’ve. You told yourself it didn’t.

You told your therapist you stopped waiting for his name to show up on your phone.

Another lie.

“I told my therapist about you,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Scott’s chewing slowed, his eyes cutting over to you. “Yeah?”

“I said I stopped seeing you.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t say a word. Just watched you with that unreadable expression he wore like armor.

“I guess I wanted her to think I was doing better,” you said, voice dry.

He finally said something, low and cautious. “Are you?”

You gave a soft laugh. “If I say yes, will you believe me?”

He leaned back, arms crossed now. Defensive. Closed off. Typical.

“Why’d you come tonight?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. “Didn’t want to think too hard about it. Just… did.”

You nodded. That was Scott in a sentence. Never words—just action. But actions without clarity left bruises, too.

“I keep telling myself you care,” you said, barely above a whisper. “Even if you don’t show it.”

Scott’s jaw ticked. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

You weren’t in love with Scott Miller. Not really. You were just addicted to wondering if he’d ever let you close enough to try.

He looked like he wanted to say something—really say something—but instead, he just popped another piece of gum and looked away.

And you knew then that he wouldn’t stop you from leaving.

Not because he didn’t care. But because he didn’t know how to show it.

The waitress dropped the check. You reached for it.

“You want me to drive you back?” he asked quietly.

You stood up. “No. I think I need the space.”

He nodded once. Just once.

Didn’t follow.

Didn’t call your name.

You ignored the signs again.