One More Minute

There’s a point after the rule breaks where you pretend you still have options.
You tell yourself you’re just delaying. Just not ready. Just giving it one more minute before you fix it, before you reset, before you make it clean again.
But time doesn’t pause for intentions.
It only records what you let happen.
And every minute after the breach is no longer an accident.

I hear him before I see him. Three sharp knocks, spaced like a pattern.

Patrick’s knock. Like he’s announcing not just himself, but his right to be here.

It’s 9:17.

Later than usual, but not by much. Not enough to call out.

Just enough to notice.

I wait a beat before opening the door. Just long enough to pretend I was doing something else, like I hadn’t been sitting on the couch, laptop untouched, waiting.

He’s in that same maroon hoodie. The one that’s too big in the sleeves but always falls perfectly across his chest. His curls are damp again. His duffel bag slung over one shoulder, phone in one hand, takeout bag in the other.