From Here | Leah Scott-Kirby

My eyebrows knit together, teeth clenched, and the blood drained from my face, away from my fingertips and toes—every reserve diverted to fight the wildfire raging in my chest.

It’s not a big deal. The words were ringing in my ears. I couldn’t speak.

“I don’t mean that,” his voice softened. “Of course it’s a big deal. But – not in the way you think.” He wrung his hands together, glancing down, then quickly up, like someone rehearsing the right amount of regret. Just choppy enough to feel believable. Did his voice crack? I couldn’t tell. He knew what he wanted to say, he knew how to get out of this, but he couldn’t let himself seem so eager. He had to take it slow, sell the show. A single tear fell from his right eye and bounced off his white-knuckled thumb. A sigh escaped his parted lips, a small sniffle, and then he looked up at me.

Did he really think I’d fall for it?

The truth was I didn’t know. I didn’t know how he could say it wasn’t a big deal. Because from where I sat, two rooms away, frozen on a hard wooden chair, peering through a doorless frame into a living room that now seemed cavernous, its walls reverberating with the unbearable weight of those fifteen minutes, all I saw was a man sinking deeper into the plush cushions of a tainted sofa. And it felt like a big deal.

From there, it felt like a very. big. deal.

I had never felt heavier. My body ached, muscles locking as if the chair itself was swallowing me whole. Gravity pressed harder, dragging me lower, whispering that the Earth would take me if I let it:  a slow, dull descent. A miserable croning, a long whine begging me to let go. To melt into the molten.

I thought I could hear my bones cracking.

From where I sat, she’d touched him. He’d tasted her. She’d whispered softly against his neck, in poorly lit rooms where they slipped into shadows of deceit.

From here, she giggled, breath hot and foul. The tips of her fingers brushed against the coarse hair running across his arm. White nail residue clung to the thick black fabric of his pants. His jacket smelt like smoke, like cherry blossom, like too much mouthwash and cologne.

From here, two rooms over, sparkles from her foundation still caught the light, resting just above his upper lip like a scar.

From here, it could only mean something.

No matter how much he swore it meant nothing.

***

The next day we woke up in the same bed. He slept soundly in the center. I rubbed my crusty, neglected eyes while I hugged the edge of the mattress, too afraid to touch him. I was convinced that if I did, if our skin met, it would burn.

The bed creaked as he rolled over, his eyelids fluttering open. I slipped out silently, my feet brushing against the cold hardwood. Down the hallway, my fingers grazed the stair railing for balance as I descended, each step deliberate, my limbs heavy with sleep deprivation. I just wanted to be alone.

I sat in front of the heater, cupping my hands around a mug growing hotter by the second. The foggy brown liquid it contained would only cause my anxiety to rise, the questions to fill my head, the images to flash behind my eyelids. I shut my eyes to block it all out, but the images only grew sharper.

He sat down beside me as I stuffed the jagged sticks of rock candy into delicate, heart-shaped bags.

"Happy Valentine’s Day," he whispered, his breath hot against my neck. I flinched, a sharp prickle racing up my arms. His eyes welled with what looked like hurt, but I couldn’t be so sure anymore. He asked, almost too gently, if he could touch my leg.

I told him he could do whatever he wanted—hadn’t he already?

***

Two days went by. I sat numb in front of my computer, hopeful that if I could just write out what had happened, I could also make it disappear. That somehow transferring the words from my head to the keys on my laptop would take them away. They’d live on the page and the page alone.

But they just sat there, waiting for me to notice them again.

He came home from the gym, careful not to disturb me in our fragile state, and perched himself awkwardly on the table where the television sat. He propped his foot up on his knee and started to untie his shoe.

He fidgeted with his shoelace, not meeting my eyes. “Would you like to watch a movie with me?”

I looked at him, my throat tightening. “Do you love her?”

The silence thickened.

He hesitated, his lips parting.

“I was thinking about that today,” he finally said. My chest tightened. “I don’t think I do. Not like that. Not in the same way, anyway.”

He stared down at his fingers, now lost in a tangle of shoelaces.

The smallest part of me felt a twinge of relief, but the rest of me couldn’t let go of the idea that he had been somewhere, without me, thinking about her. Considering her. As what?

I wandered over to him and sat in his lap. He looked up at me, eyes glossy and wide.

I gave him a kiss on the forehead, a light pat on the shoulder, and then I rose again.

“It was a big deal.” I pulled my purse from the hook by the door. “And it still is.”

---

Leah Scott-Kirby is a writer and creative consultant with an MFA from the prestigious Stonecoast program. Her work explores the complexities of human relationships, often balancing emotional honesty with moments of quiet resilience. A former Editor-in-Chief of Stonecoast Review, Leah is also the co-founder of The Practice of Writing, where she fosters inclusive, creative spaces for writers. She was recently accepted into the Chateau D’Orquevaux Artist Residency in France. Find her chasing inspiration through flash writing and evocative storytelling.