The Night He Asked Me to Stay The apartment was still warm from the day. The lights were off. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen, and somewhere behind me, he was breathing like there was something he wanted to say but didn't know how. We had been pretending for weeks. Pretending the looks across the kitchen meant nothing. Pretending his fingers hadn't lingered when he handed me the remote. Pretending that every time we reached for the same mug, the sudden silence was just coincidence. We were getting good at pretending. Until tonight. I heard the door close behind me. “You stayed,” he said. His voice was quiet. Almost uncertain. I turned. The city lights slipped through the blinds, drawing silver lines across his face and the open collar of his shirt. He looked at me the way he'd been looking at me for weeks, except this time, neither of us had anywhere else to look. I said I would. You always say that. There was something in his voice that made me stop smiling. “What does that mean?” He looked down for a moment, then back at me. It means I've started looking forward to things I have no right to expect. The words settled between us. For once, I didn't have a clever answer. I didn't have a joke to hide behind. I just stood there, realizing that the man I'd been trying not to fall for had been standing on the same edge. So I crossed the room.