I came back to the island for the funeral of a man I barely knew, just to sit with his widow. My mother's house, my old bedroom, the same crack in the ceiling.
After the service I stood in front of the mirror that's hung here since I was twelve. The glass is a little foggy at the edges, a little silver gone. I looked at my face, and for the first time in a hard year I truly saw it.
The weight is in my jaw now, in the set of my shoulders. The same hands that wrap pork loins and split ribs every day, resting at my sides. I looked at myself like a stranger might, and I understood what you saw when you left.
My phone buzzed: 4% battery. I had watched the season finale alone the night before, some show I can't even name now, just blue light and a silent room. I thought about all the things I had given — time, patience, a steady paycheck — but never my full heart.
So I dialed you. The ferry schedule was on the dresser, same as always. I waited for your voice, and when you answered I didn't apologize. I just said what I should have said before the weight settled in that mirror.
You listened. The line went quiet. Then you asked me what time the last ferry runs on Fridays.
I looked at my reflection one more time. The man in the glass was still tired, still older than I feel. But he was speaking, finally.