"I can't come back just because we both miss each other," he said. "I need to know we can disagree without a trap waiting underneath the conversation." I nodded and told him he was right. He asked whether I would be willing to continue working on that even if we never got back together. "I already am," I said. "And I need to keep doing it because I don't want to be that version of myself with anyone."
He took a long breath. "I believe you're trying," he said. "I don't know yet whether I can trust it." Those words were not meant to punish me. They were an honest report from a person who had been hurt and did not want to hurt me in return. I thanked him for meeting me and for saying things I needed to hear, even though they were painful.
When we stood to leave, I offered to pay for the coffee. Donovan said we could split it, and I did not argue. Outside, the December air bit at our faces, and we stood beneath the diner's awning while a car passed through shallow puddles along the curb. I wanted to step into his arms. Instead I asked whether a hug would be all right, and he hesitated before saying yes.
The embrace lasted only a few seconds. He felt familiar enough to break my heart again, but he did not hold me as though the evening had restored everything between us. When we separated, he touched my sleeve and said he would be in touch when he was ready. I watched him walk to his pickup and resisted the urge to call after him. This time, letting him leave was not a test of whether he would return; it was a way of respecting the answer he had given.
I drove home listening to no music. At a red light I saw a couple crossing the street together, the woman laughing while the man balanced two grocery bags against his chest. They were not performing for an audience, and I knew nothing about what happened between them when they disagreed. The sight made me smile anyway. For the first time in a long time, I did not need to turn their private life into a lesson about my own.
Christmas was quieter than I expected. My mother invited Kendra and her family for dinner, and we spent an afternoon making cookies that spread into uneven shapes on the baking sheets. Donovan sent a short holiday message, and I answered with one of my own. We did not exchange gifts, make plans, or pretend to be closer than we currently were. I bought a small book of repair drawings I thought he might like, then decided not to send it because a surprise gift would place him under pressure to respond.