The Room Kept His Score

I felt the room turn before Hugo came back. For one horrible second I thought I had spent years becoming the exact sort of man people accuse of arranging everything, and that Rowan had only said it louder because he had seen the seam.

I said no because it was true. I also said no because saying anything clever would have handed him the scene. Sometimes my silence looks like guilt, and I hate that people can read my best protection as evidence.

Hugo keeps trying to turn himself into a better sentence. I understand that impulse too well. If he says exactly the right thing, maybe no one will notice that he needed coaching in the first place. If the apology is perfectly judged, the performance will survive it. I wanted to shake him, not for hurting him, but for making me watch him become small again.

I keep a private count of the matches I think I saved. I add the dates I believe I ruined, but lately I am less sure which pile matters more. The failures are easier to count because I was there when they happened.

At home, the quiet felt like punishment. I kept checking the phone even though there was no call I wanted to answer. My chest tightened whenever the fireworks cracked, that little panic climbing my throat for no reason I can name.