FREYA
I had planned to be standing when he walked through that door.
Standing felt like the right posture for this conversation, like something I could control, and I had spent enough of my life being deliberate about the posture of hard conversations that sitting had felt wrong when I rehearsed it. I was going to stand.
But he comes through the door and he looks the way he looks after a long absence, the set of his jaw and the weight behind his eyes and the exhaustion of a man who has been holding something for days and is finally in the room where he can put it down, and I cannot make myself stand up.
I am tired.
I have been tired since the cabin. Since before the cabin, if I am honest. And I am done not being honest.
I reached for the words I had arranged. "I need to tell you why."
