Boots & Curls

I asked him one last time.

Not to fight.

Not to trap him.

Not to win.

Just to feel safe.

Because I’d done something stupid. Reached out to one of his exes.

I expected coldness. Maybe some passive-aggressive silence.

Instead, she gave me kindness. And truth.

And the second you hear truth from someone who doesn’t owe shit to you, it gets a lot harder to keep lying to yourself.

So I asked him…

“Are you still talking to her?”

He could’ve made it simple.

No riddles. No gaps.

Just one honest breath.

But he didn’t.

So I blocked him.

Not to punish.

Not to wound.

Just because I’m done gasping for air in a house he keeps setting on fire and still wonder why I’m choking.

I am tired.

Not nap-tired.

Bone-tired.

Soul-tired.

Tired in a way that turns joy into a distant language.

Tired in a way that makes food feel like work and silence feel like a siren.

But still…I try.

So today I went to the pool again. Alone. Again.

I didn’t plan to stay long.

I thought maybe if I sat still long enough, the sun might bleach the ache out of me.

That’s when she appeared.

Tiny. Wild-haired. Floaties up to her ears.

Came crashing into the water with a splash and a shout:

“WATCH THIS! I’M GONNA DO A TRICK!”

She immediately face-planted.

Nobody looked. Not her mom. Not her dad. No one.

But I did.

Because I know what it feels like to be unseen.

She spotted me.

Swam over like a storm in a tutu and said, “Hey! What’s your name?”

I told her.

She told me hers.

“Cielo.”

I blinked. “That’s your name?”

She nodded, all teeth and chunky brown cheeks. Maybe five years old.

“Yep. heaven. My ‘buela named me. I almost died in my mommy’s belly.”

I almost laughed. The actual fuck?!

Of course she did.

Of all the names in the world.

Cielo.

Even my rusty Spanish could translate that one.

I smiled and muttered, half to myself, “These new-age Mexicans are really out here naming their kids full-on poetry, Jesus.”

She asked about the pink noodle that kept floating toward me. I told her it wasn’t mine, but she could have it.

She stared at it, narrowed her eyes, and said, “It keeps coming back?”

I laughed. Actually laughed.

Then I showed her how to spray water through it like a fountain.

We both got soaked.

She ran off after that.

I leaned back, thinking that was it.

But a few minutes later, she reappeared…dripping wet, determined…yanked out one of my headphones startling me and said, “Wanna play catch?”

She held up a neon Nerf ball like it was an offering.

I wanted to say no.

But she looked at me like I mattered.

So I said yes.

And for ten minutes, I forgot I was tired.

Forgot I was heartbroken.

Forgot everything but the sheer ridiculous joy of being picked…just once.

She made fart noises when she threw it. Her bright little white teeth were so cute biting into her bottom lip. It made me think of Charly.

Accused me of trying to kill her when it hit her floatie.

I haven’t laughed like that in weeks.

Maybe she won’t remember me.

But I’ll remember her.

Because maybe we weren’t so different.

Two girls trying to be seen.

To be chosen.

To be kept.

And of all the names she could’ve had…

Cielo.

Heaven.

Light.

Like the universe couldn’t send a letter, so it sent her.

Hours later, I found myself back at someone else’s kitchen island.

Someone new.

Not new like butterflies or danger.

New like quiet.

Like still water that doesn’t ask you to swim or sink…just to sit a while.

I’ve kept my feelings guarded around him.

Not because he’s unkind.

But because that’s what women do when they’ve been hurt…wrap the soft parts in armor.

But last night… he noticed.

Noticed that something about me had changed.

He asked, gently.

Pressed a little.

Not in a way that felt invasive, or like he was angling for sex or sympathy.

Just… real. Soft. Curious.

Like maybe he’s hiding his own bruises, too.

And I didn’t push.

Neither did he.

The space between us felt weirdly safe.

When I finally said I wanted to head back to my apartment, he stood without hesitation and walked me there.

No jokes. No suggestion to stay.

Just a quiet walk under a too-dark sky.

And when we got to my door, he gave me a hug.

Not the kind laced with expectation.

Not the kind that tries to slip a kiss in, or comes with a hard press of hips.

Just a hug.

Warm. Still.

Like an apology from a stranger who somehow knows your whole story.

Or maybe his spirit did.

Earlier that night, we sat across from each other, eating pizza at his island.

Remi, ever the gentleman, didn’t beg…just sat with the dignity of someone raised right.

But his golden retriever puppy…this floppy, golden goofball named Sage…was not so refined.

She tried to climb into his lap.

Failed.

Then turned her attention to me and gently placed her paw on my foot like a mob boss asking for a favor.

Remi gave her a side-eye, like, we don’t do that in this house,

and I swear to God, she sighed, shuffled back to her bed, and kicked her little back leg like Peanut used to in protest.

He said, “She gets it from her mom,” then winked at me.

I said, “Don’t insult her like that.”

It was nothing.

But it was everything.

Because I’ve spent years starving.

Driving miles for affection.

Skipping meals. Swallowing apologies I never got.

Telling myself I was full when I was running on fumes.

But tonight, I’m not starving.

Someone else made dinner.

Someone sat across from me like I wasn’t a burden.

Someone walked me home without expecting anything in return.

And a dog named Sage sighed dramatically when she didn’t get a bite of my jalapeño pineapple pizza.

And if the man I used to love ever wonders….

if he wonders whether I still ache for him,

whether I dream of him,

whether I’d trade this quiet for one more night in his arms…

Let him.

I met a little girl named Cielo today.

And I remembered what heaven felt like.

I’m not starving anymore.

And someone else is making dinner.