Not Burning, Burnt

and then you just walked out like it meant nothing, she says, fingers tight around the coffee mug, knuckles white against the ceramic. steam rises between them. outside the kitchen window snow falls in big wet clumps that dont stick.

meant nothing? jesus mae i came back didnt i? im here now trying to explain. he runs his palm over the scratched formica tabletop, tracing old rings from hot cups, memories of other mornings, other arguments.

three weeks later. her voice drops lower. three weeks of silence.

i needed time to think.

think about what exactly? what was so complicated that you needed three weeks of complete radio silence to figure out? the mug makes a sharp sound against the table as she sets it down too hard. coffee sloshes over the rim, spreads across the formica like a stain blooming.

he watches the coffee creep toward the edge of the table. reaches for a dish towel hanging from the oven handle. she pulls it away first, wipes up the spill with short angry strokes.

i was trying to figure out if i could be what you needed. his voice softens. if i could give you the life you deserve.

dont. she crumples the wet towel in her fist. dont try to make this noble.

im not. im trying to be honest.

now? now youre trying honesty?

silence fills the kitchen. the refrigerator hums. snow builds up on the window ledge outside.

remember that summer at the lake? he says finally. that night we built a fire on the beach?

she closes her eyes. dont.

the wind kept shifting, blowing smoke in our faces. but we stayed. kept feeding it branches, kept it burning until sunrise. he leans forward, elbows on the table. thats what we have mae. its messy sometimes, gets in our eyes, makes us turn away. but underneath its still burning. always burning.

we were twenty-two. her eyes open, fix on him. and its not burning anymore cole. its burnt.

no. no, listen. his hands move through the air between them, trying to shape what he means. its like... its like this old truck engine i rebuilt last month. looked like scrap, all rusted out, seized up. but the bones were good. just needed someone willing to dig in, clean it up, replace the worn parts. now it runs better than new.

she pushes back from the table. chair legs scrape against linoleum. im not an engine cole. im not something you can fix up in your garage when you finally feel like it.

thats not what i meant.

then what did you mean? explain it to me. explain how leaving for three weeks with no word, no call, no text, was somehow about saving us? about keeping something burning?

he stares down at his hands. grease still dark under his fingernails despite scrubbing. i got scared.

of what?

of not being enough. of being exactly who you said i was - someone who breaks things he cant fix.

she stands, carries her mug to the sink. looks out at the snow. you dont break things cole. you just stop tending them. let them run down, run cold. then you convince yourself theres something noble in trying to resurrect them. she turns back to him. but some things cant be brought back. some things are just finished.

we're not finished. he pushes up from the table, takes a step toward her. mae please. i know i fucked up. know i hurt you. but dont tell me what we have is dead. dont tell me that fire went out.

it didn't go out cole. her voice is quiet now, almost gentle. you weren't there to see it happen. but it didn't just die - it burned through everything we built. burned until there was nothing left but ashes. and now youre kneeling in those ashes, trying to convince me you can still see flames.

he stops. the space between them feels vast suddenly, uncrossable. outside the snow falls harder, whites out the world beyond the window.

i love you, he says. words naked, unadorned with metaphor now.

i know. she puts her mug in the sink, runs water. but love isn't always enough. sometimes it just illuminates what's broken.

the water runs. he watches her back, the familiar curve of her spine beneath her sweater. remembers other mornings in this kitchen, her body warm against his, coffee going cold on the counter. remembers the weight of her head on his chest that night on the beach, sparks rising into darkness, their whole future spread out before them like stars.

what if... his voice catches. he starts again. what if i could prove it's not too late? what if i could show you?

she turns off the water. dries her hands on the dish towel, still damp with spilled coffee. you already have. she meets his eyes. you showed me when you walked out that door three weeks ago. showed me again every day you didn't call. and youre showing me now, with these stories about fires and engines, trying to romanticize what's already gone instead of facing what's real.

this is real. he gestures between them. us, here, trying to figure this out. that's real.

no cole. she shakes her head. this is epilogue. this is you trying to rewrite an ending that's already written. she moves past him, heads for the hallway. stops in the doorway. i loved our fire too. loved watching it burn. but i was also there to see it burn through. and i won't pretend i still see flames just because you've finally decided to come looking for them.

he stands alone in the kitchen. listens to her footsteps on the stairs. outside the snow falls, erasing tracks, covering everything in clean white silence. the refrigerator hums. somewhere under the sink a pipe drips, marking time. he looks down at his hands - mechanic's hands, used to fixing what's broken. but she's right. some things can't be brought back once they're gone. some fires leave nothing behind but ashes, no matter how hard you search for remaining sparks.

he turns off the kitchen light. walks to the front door in darkness. opens it to swirling snow and biting wind. steps out into white silence, pulling the door closed behind him. leaves no footprints that won't be covered, no trace that he was ever there at all.