We don’t talk about the wedding anymore. We don’t need to. It’s just a weird blip in a story that no longer belongs to us. Some nights we sit on our new porch with wine and watch the neighbors’ dog chase moths under the porch light. We talk about actual things—books, trips, ideas, the business Emily’s planning. Real things. That old life. It doesn’t even feel like mine anymore. It’s something I watched happen. Something I closed the book on.
Sometimes fire doesn’t need to be fought. Sometimes you just let it burn itself out and walk away, finally warm.
