Liam’s POV
I shook my head. “I’m not treating you like a stranger. I’m treating you like someone who used to matter but no longer stands in the same place in my life.”
That made her shoulders tense slightly. She let out a short, bitter laugh. “You’ve always been good at wrapping rejection in words that sound mature.”
“Maybe,” I answered honestly. “Or maybe I’ve finally learned how to say no without feeling guilty.”
Emily stood up as well. Now we were facing each other, an arm’s length apart. I could smell the same perfume as the one I used to know, the one that once felt familiar. Now it felt foreign.
“You know,” she said quietly, almost like a confession, “I didn’t come here to ruin your marriage.”
“But the way you keep closing the distance does exactly that,” I shot back before I could stop myself. I exhaled and softened my tone. “I’m not accusing you. I’m just asking you to stop.”
She turned her face away, looking at the table where untouched food sat waiting. “Stopping isn’t as easy as flipping your hand over, Liam. You know I’m in a difficult phase.”
“I know,” I said. “And I hope you have the right person to carry it with you.”
“Other than you?” she asked quietly.
The question hung in the air, just as heavy as the ones before it. I didn’t answer right away not because I hesitated, but because I wanted my answer to leave no room.
“Other than me,” I said at last. “Because I’ve already chosen my role.”
Emily turned quickly, staring at me with a mix of desperation and anger. “You chose her,” she said, almost like an accusation.
“I chose my family,” I corrected. “And that includes choosing not to create new confusion.”
She let out a long breath and sat back down, as if her strength had suddenly drained away. Her shoulders slumped. For a moment, Emily looked more fragile than before. But I knew that if I moved closer now, if I comforted her the old way, everything would blur again.
“I didn’t come to touch you,” she said softly, as if reading my thoughts. “I just want to not feel alone.”
I looked at her for a long moment. The pity was there. But along with it came a stronger awareness: I could not be the wrong support.
Silence settled over the room again. Outside, the sound of the city drifted faintly. I reached for my jacket from the back of the chair, signaling that this conversation was nearing its end.
Emily looked at me, waiting perhaps hoping for one sentence she could hold onto.
I took a breath, choosing words that were honest, with no room for misinterpretation.
“I still care,” I said. “But not in the way you think.”
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