The fine.

I could tell something was off. The way he answered — too quick, too flat. I know that tone. I asked if he was okay.

Fine, he said.

I asked again, gently. Said he seemed quiet. He said he was just tired.

I didn't believe him. Not because I thought he was lying, but because I know what tired looks like on him and this wasn't it. So I tried once more. Just — are you sure? You can tell me.

He said he was fine, a little sharper this time.

I stopped asking. But I didn't stop worrying. I spent the next hour trying to figure out what was happening, whether it was something I'd done, whether I should try again or give him space. I got it wrong either way. I always seem to get it wrong either way.

I wasn't fine. But I also wasn't ready to talk about it yet. I needed ten minutes — maybe twenty — to figure out what I was even feeling before I could put it into words. That's just how I work. I can't explain something I haven't processed yet.

She asked if I was okay. I said fine because fine meant not yet, give me a minute — and I didn't know how to say that in the moment.

She asked again. And again.

By the third time I wasn't just unready — I was defensive. I shut down completely. Not because I didn't want to talk to her. Because I couldn't, not yet, and the pressure to do it before I was ready made it impossible.

She went quiet. I could feel her pulling away.

I didn't know how to explain that I needed space to come toward her.