The Reckoning

The coffee cup has long since gone cold in my hands, the porcelain now just a dock for my trembling fingers. The air between us is toxic, thick with years of unspoken truths, micro-tears fraying at the fabric of our existence.

"I need to know why," I say, my voice sharper than I intend.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just tilts his head slightly. Always slightly, like he’s posing for a portrait. Always silent, or more like dead, when it matters most.

“Why do you flicker in and out of my life?” I press, a slow burn rising in my chest. “You appear like a warrior and vanish like a thief. Why do you ride off so effortlessly to them, while I’m left here chasing your shadow?”

A measured inhale. A pause that stretches just long enough to make me breathe all the way out. I wait.

"You think I left you?" His voice is calm—too calm. As if he already knows the answer.

I let out a hollow laugh, lean in hard. “It’s all you ever do.”

“Is it?” He arches an eyebrow, no hesitation.

He pulls back, folding his hands in his lap—like a marble statue, smooth as ever. Untroubled. I want to shake him, force him to feel even a fraction of the frustration clawing at my ribs, a glimpse into the cost of disillusionment.

"I never left you," he says.

My gut clenches. “That’s a lie,” I say, quieter now.

I think of my parents—my father breaking himself apart just to have you come around more, my mother stretching every bit of your time with us, until her fingers bled. The fights. The silences. The fear of you that settled into their bones like a second skeleton.

He leans forward, eyes honest. “It must have been hard to give me a chance. You learned, better to brace yourself for abandonment every time I came close. I can see how I was a mortal threat, a source of chaos. Even something fleeting, something cruel.” His voice softens, cutting deeper. “It sucks cause you only saw the pain I caused, never the comfort I could give.”

A prickle runs down my spine. He read my mind.

"That’s ridiculous," I protest, hands raised.

"Is it?" His voice is steady, almost without emotion. "Like those who came before you, you fear me, at times resent me, mostly use me up, and then curse me. You, child, never trust that I want to stay, want to be part of your life, so I never do."

His words lodge in my throat, heavy and foreign, like a stone sinking into deep water. My mouth opens, ready to fire back, but nothing comes.

I think of my twenties, clawing my way through single motherhood, every paycheck spoken for before it even hit my account. The sleepless nights. The late child support. The empty fridge. The impossible math of survival.

The years of bitterness. The quiet, seething hate as he flowed to him, and him, and him.

My throat is dry when I finally speak. "You always go to them first," I whisper. "The men. The corrupt. The powerful. They don’t even need you, and you stay."

"I don’t choose to go or stay with them. I go because they never question whether I will mold to their will."

The answer lands like a slap across my cheek. My pulse stutters. My face reddens.

"So, what?" I croak. "I don’t deserve you?"

He tilts his head slightly, always slightly, considering my accusation. "I could never say that. But let me ask you genuinely—he leans in slightly, voice softer now—"Have you ever opened your arms to me without bracing for my absence?”

I listened.

“Do you ever hold me without flinching, without waiting for the floodgate to open and wash me away? Did you ever see me as more than a fleeting shadow, more than a battle to be won?"

I swallow hard, my heart pounding.

Another long silence pulls at the seams of my resolve.

I lift my gaze, searching his face. There’s something eerily familiar about him. Something I can’t place.

"Who are you?" I whisper. But as I say it, my stomach knots—because I already know.

His smile is slow, assured. "You’ve known all along."

And in an instant, I do.

This is Money. That guy I’ve known since I was born.

The realization knocks the wind from my lungs.

He extends a hand across the table. "So, what’s it going to be? Are we done fighting? Or do you finally want to work together?"

My heart pounds. The old instinct flares—to recoil, to push away, to treat this as a trap. But something stops me.

I exhale. My fingers twitch. For once, I choose to not fight it.

I reach across the table, my palm meeting his.

His grip is firm—steady, solid. But as our hands clasp, something shifts. His edges blur, his presence softening like sunlight through sheer fabric. The pressure in his grasp eases, fluid now, effortless. Warmth blooms against my skin—his hardness eases, his presence gentle now, offering rather than taking.

My breath catches as I realize it’s no longer him.

But her.

A presence that doesn’t take, but gives.

My breath catches. I exhale slowly, relief filling the empty spaces of fear.

“No more running,” I promise. “Let’s collaborate.”

When I finally let go, so does he.

But she—she remains, still holding my hand.