Page 3 of Where the Snakes Sleep

Compromise, I’d told myself.

Relationships require compromise.

Even if compromise feels like continuously giving him small pieces of me that I don’t want to give, just to protect the biggest piece.

Paul’s jaw tightens. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“You know.”

“No.” I step sideways, forcing enough space between us to finally slip past him. “I don’t.”

He turns as I put the pan on the stove. “Ryan.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I know exactly what you were going to say.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Everything has to be a fight with you now.”

“No.” I keep my back to him as I reach for a bottle of cooking oil. My hands are shaking, so I have to tighten my grip. “Everything has to become an argument because you won’t accept my answer.”

“What answer?” he asks, brows drawn together in frustrated confusion.

“No.”

The kitchen falls silent, then, when he finally speaks again, his voice has gone cold. “I don’t even recognize you anymore.”

I swallow hard but don’t turn around. “Then maybe you never knew me as well as you thought.”

For several long seconds, neither of us moves. Then the gift bag disappears off the counter with an angry rustle.

“Forget it.”

A moment later, the front door slams hard enough to rattle the picture frames in the hallway.

The apartment settles into silence.

I stay exactly where I am, staring at the burner I never turned on, listening to my own breathing.

Only when I’m sure he’s driven away do I realize my hands are still trembling.

I lean both hands on the counter and close my eyes.

When did this become us?

The question comes more often these days, and I never have an answer.

Because this isn’t the man I fell in love with.

Or maybe it is.

Maybe this version was always here, tucked somewhere beneath six years of shared history and teenage promises, waiting for the right circumstances to crawl out.

I don’t know which possibility hurts more.