The screen lit up between them.
Neither of them moved.
—
He could read it now.
He just hadn't.
—
"Go ahead," Lesica said quietly.
"Read it."
—
That was new.
No control over access.
No delay.
—
Just permission.
—
Which somehow felt more dangerous.
—
His thumb hovered for a second.
Then—
he looked.
—
"If you read this before asking her one thing, you're doing it again."
—
His brow furrowed.
—
"Doing what?"
—
Lesica didn't answer.
She just watched him.
—
Waiting.
—
The message stayed on the screen.
Unchanged.
—
Ask her first.
—
He exhaled slowly.
This wasn't random anymore.
—
There was structure.
Timing.
—
And she knew it.
—
"What am I supposed to ask?" he said.
—
A pause.
—
Then—
Lesica stepped just slightly closer.
Not invading.
Not retreating.
—
Centering.
—
"You already know."
—
That answer shouldn't have worked.
—
But it did.
—
Because something in his chest had already started forming the question—
before he realized it.
—
"You said," he began slowly,
"that I chose something that night."
—
Her gaze didn't waver.
—
"What did I choose?"
—
Silence.
—
Not long.
—
But real.
—
Then—
Lesica answered.
—
"You chose to let me go."
—
The words didn't hit loudly.
—
They settled.
—
And that made them worse.
—
"I didn't choose that," he said immediately.
—
"You did."
—
"I didn't know—"
—
"You knew enough."
—
That cut deeper.
—
Because now—
it wasn't about memory.
—
It was about awareness.
—
His.
—
"If I knew," he said, quieter now,
"then why didn't I stop you?"
—
A pause.
—
Then—
"Because something in you thought it was easier not to."
—
Silence.
—
That—
that didn't feel like something she made up.
—
It felt like something he avoided.
—
His phone buzzed again.
—
He looked down.
—
The next message.
—
"Now read the last one."
—
His thumb moved.
—
He opened it.
—
"She didn't leave because you didn't care. She left because you didn't choose to."
—
His breath slowed.
—
Because that difference—
that small shift—
changed everything.
—
He looked up at Lesica.
—
"That's not the same thing."
—
"No," she said softly.
"It's not."
—
"Not caring is one thing."
—
"And not choosing is another."
—
A beat.
—
"Which one do you think matters more?"
—
He didn't answer.
—
Because now—
he wasn't sure.
—
Lesica stepped closer again.
Close enough that there was no space left to analyze.
—
"Back then," she said quietly,
"I waited to see if you would choose me."
—
A pause.
—
"You didn't."
—
Her gaze didn't break.
—
"So now?"
—
Another step.
—
"I make sure you do."
—
That wasn't a threat.
—
It wasn't force.
—
It was something more precise.
—
More controlled.
—
Because she wasn't taking the choice away—
—
She was removing every reason he had not to make it.
—
His phone buzzed again.
—
But neither of them looked.
—
Because now—
the messages weren't leading.
—
They had arrived.
—
"You think this is me choosing?" he asked.
—
"Yes."
—
"How?"
—
A small pause.
—
Then—
"Because you're still here."
—
Silence.
—
That answer shouldn't have been enough.
—
But it was.
—
Because leaving now—
would mean repeating it.
—
And staying—
meant stepping into something he didn't fully understand yet.
—
Lesica watched him.
Not pushing.
Not guiding.
—
Just… letting the moment exist.
—
Because this time—
the choice wasn't hidden.
—
It was right in front of him.
—
Clear.
—
And unavoidable.
—
Cliffhanger:
His phone buzzed again.
—
One final message.
—
He looked.
—
"If you stay now, you're not fixing the past."
—
A beat.
—
"You're agreeing to what she became because of it."
—
His grip tightened.
—
Slowly—
he looked up at her.
—
Lesica didn't move.
Didn't speak.
—
Just watched him.
—
Waiting.
—
Not for him to understand.
—
But for him—
to decide.