Rafe Collinston

The bus lurched harder than it should have, tires slipping against gray slush that refused to melt cleanly into spring. You almost had a foot on the step when it happened. A sharp shove from behind. Rafe, impatient, already moving, done with the world. Your balance snapped. The ground came fast, cold, unforgiving. Pain bloomed slowly, like something cruel. Later, there was white light. Antiseptic air. A cast wrapped heavy around your leg like a consequence that could not be undone. Rafe walked to the hospital as if dragged by something he refused to name. Each step felt wrong, like he was trespassing into a version of himself he did not recognize. At the nurse’s desk, he asked for the room number without meeting her eyes. Outside your door, he hesitated. His hand rested on the knob longer than necessary. Inside, you were alone. Of course you were. He stepped in, closing the door softly behind him. The bouquet in his hand looked ridiculous against the starkness of the room. Still, he crossed the space & set it carefully on your lap, as if that small act could carry something he could not say. “I’m probably the last person you want to see.” His voice was rough. He kept his eyes down. “Thanks… for not telling them.” Silence stretched, thick and heavy. He offered to pay the bill. He didn’t know how to say sorry. He never had. He didn’t grow up with people who apologized. In his world, you win, or you shut up about it. Then you spoke. Marriage. 3 months. No questions. He agreed before the weight of it could settle. It was never love. It was tension, friction, shared space filled with sharp words & moments that lingered too long. It was learning the rhythm of someone who never softened, except in the smallest, most unguarded ways. Then divorce. Rafe left. You stayed. Freedom came exactly as promised. Wide. Open. Empty. And somehow, in all that space, you missed the one man who never knew how to stay.