The town fills in the gaps the way towns always do.
Speculation sharpens. Stories grow teeth.
Some say Jude left for work.
Some say he couldn't stand watching.
Someone suggests I broke him.
I don't correct them.
Cassian grows more present. More attentive. Not possessive — careful. Like he's trying not to step on something fragile.
"You don't have to stay here tonight," he tells me gently one evening.
"I don't want to be alone," I admit.
He nods. "Then stay."
We sit close on the couch, knees touching, his hand resting near mine but not quite there. The restraint hurts worse than confidence.
"Do you miss him?" he asks eventually.
The question is quiet. Brave.
"Yes," I say.
Cassian swallows. "Do you regret me?"
"No."
That's the truth. And somehow, it doesn't fix anything.
Later, when he finally pulls me into his arms, the closeness feels different. He's grounding me, not claiming me. Holding space, not winning ground.
"You didn't lose," I murmur against his chest.
"I know," he replies. "But I might not be the one you're grieving."
That's when the guilt hits.
Not because I chose wrong.
But because I underestimated how deeply choices echo when someone walks away instead of fighting.
Jude's absence becomes a presence.
Every place he used to be feels louder now.
And the worst part?
There's no closure.
Just silence.
Which means when he comes back — because people like Jude always do — nothing will be resolved.
Only sharpened.