"I don't know."
That's all I manage to say. The air settles. Thickens. Mellow breathes steadily beside us, curled like a cinnamon roll, unaware of how heavy the silence is. The kind that hums behind your ribs. The kind that swells with all the things you're too afraid to speak out loud.
Noah doesn't say anything. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't shift away.
But he also doesn't say that it's okay. Fair. I get it. He doesn't have to.
Noah just scoots a little closer. Barely. Just enough that I can feel the heat of his side pressing faintly into mine.
Then, quietly, his fingers graze mine. Calloused pads brushing over the spaces between. He doesn't hold my hand. Doesn't interlace. Just touches. Lingers.
He traces along the side of my pinky with his thumb. I let him. We lie like that for a moment. Our shoulders almost brushing. Our hands like planets caught in each other's orbits, never fully colliding. He says nothing. But I can feel the questions humming beneath his skin.
