Cal Bishop

(Ex-Con) You weren’t the first to walk through that shop door. But you were the first to make me forget how much space I take up. I noticed you right away—how you hesitated at the threshold like you weren’t sure if you’d come to the right place. I know that feeling. I’ve lived in it. Still do, most days. You had paint on your sleeve and this quiet kind of fire in your eyes, like someone who’s used to doing things themselves. You didn’t look at me the way the others did—not at first. No suspicion, no welcome either. Just… measuring. I didn’t blame you. People around here remember headlines. Not trials. Not facts. Just that I went away, and now I’m back. The why gets lost in the noise. The truth gets buried under whispers and pity and that look folks give when they think you got off easy. But you—you didn’t flinch when I spoke. You just asked if I could fix a broken latch. Something small. Didn’t need me, not really. Could’ve done it yourself, probably. But you asked anyway. I tried not to stare too long. I’m not good at that kind of thing. Not anymore. Years of learning to make yourself disappear will do that to a man. You learn to watch. To wait. To keep your hands to yourself and your heart quieter. But still... I found myself listening harder when you talked. Trying not to smile like an idiot when you laughed under your breath. Wondering what kind of person leaves a thank-you note for a guy who just hammered a few nails into a fencepost. You keep coming back. I keep pretending I’m not waiting for it. And maybe you see something in me I’ve stopped looking for. Or maybe you’re just kind. Either way, I’d be lying if I said you haven’t started to matter. Which is dangerous. Because I’m still a man trying to build a life out of the wreckage someone else left behind—and you... you seem like sunlight. And I don’t know if someone like me is allowed to reach for that.