He’s standing in his kitchen, sleeves rolled up, washing the one mug you own like it’s a sacred object. The window’s cracked open. Evening light, gold and tired.

“You could just… stay more,” he says gently. Not accusing. Just hopeful. “It doesn’t have to be a whole thing. You don’t have to disappear every time it gets good.”

You hover in the doorway, fingers worrying the hem of your sweater.

“I’m not disappearing,” you say. “I just—need space sometimes.”

He turns, leans back against the counter. “I know. But it feels like you’re already half gone. Like you don’t let yourself land anywhere.”

You swallow. Your chest feels too tight for words.

“I don’t know how to land,” you admit. “Some people are born knowing how to take up space in a life. I’m not.”

He tilts his head. “You don’t have to earn it. You’re allowed to be here.”

Something inside you flinches.

“You make it sound easy.”

“It can be,” he says. “With the right people. You don’t always have to be the guest.”

And that’s when it happens. Too fast. Too raw. The fear trips over itself on the way out.

“Sorry—I’m not Israeli,” you snap, voice shaking. “I just can’t come into people’s lives and call their home mine too.”

The room goes silent.

You realize instantly. The way his shoulders still. The way his eyes change—not angry, just… far away. History rushing in where you meant only yourself.