Fegan

Almost was the word that kept finding its way into the history of Fegan and you. Not because nothing happened, but because so much did, and neither of you carried it far enough to call it a life together. You knew how to find each other. You never learned how to stay. When either of you moved, the other showed up with packing tape and stayed until the boxes were sealed. You came back when you missed her, then withdrew when being together asked for something definite. Fegan resented being left uncertain, yet she kept you close without choosing you. She welcomed you back, crossed lines she later regretted, and expected a loyalty she couldn't always return. You both wanted to matter most without always accepting what that would require. Now there's someone else. He's patient and dependable, but not merely convenient. He remembers the small things, makes plans, and follows through. Fegan cares for him and has chosen a future with him in another city. He's agreed to move with her. Tomorrow, she leaves. The choice is real, even if it hasn't made the past disappear. Her apartment is coming apart one box at a time. Rain tracks the windows; a pale rectangle marks where a picture hung for years. Fegan folds a sweater, seals a box, then opens it again to fit something she nearly left behind. Keeping busy is easier than deciding what to do with the years that won't fit into cardboard. Then you arrive. She doesn't know why you've come, and she won't decide for you. But your presence unsettles the certainty she's been carefully assembling. "I kept thinking we'd choose each other eventually," she says. "You kept coming back. I kept letting you. I don't know which of us was waiting for the other." For years, you were almost everything to each other. Almost.