Chapter 3 The Weight of a Cross

Cynthia

I lingered at the gate longer than I meant to, fingers curled tight around the little silver cross in my pocket. My thumb traced its smooth edges, over and over, like it might give me courage if I held on long enough.

A breeze carried the faint smell of cooking from somewhere inside-cinnamon, maybe cloves, warm and sweet. The scent made the place feel alive, like someone cared enough to keep it welcoming.

I almost turned around. Maybe this is a mistake, I thought. I could just slip the cross under his door, send him a text later, and pretend this night never happened.

But before I could take a step back, the door opened.

Raymond stood in the doorway, a towel draped over one shoulder, damp hair pushed back as though he'd just come from the shower. He looked like he'd been expecting someone-but maybe not me.

"You came," he said, voice lower than I remembered. It had a steadiness to it that made it hard to look at him too long.

"I didn't mean to intrude." I held the little cross out, balancing it on my palm like it might burn me if I kept it too long. "I found this behind the lab building. I think it's yours."

He stepped forward, gaze locking on the cross, but not reaching for it yet. "You sure it's mine?"

"I'm not sure of anything lately," I said, voice shaking more than I wanted it to. "But you were there that night... and I thought maybe-"

"Thank you." His hand moved finally, slow and careful, brushing against my fingers as he took it. The contact was brief, but it sent a quiet jolt through me-warm and unsettling all at once.

His thumb swept across the cross like he was trying to memorize its feel. "I thought I lost this years ago."

I shifted my weight, unsure what to do with my hands now that they felt oddly empty. "I almost didn't bring it."

His eyes lifted to mine, steady, unreadable. "Why?"

"I thought it might be... something you didn't want back."

He turned the cross over once more before slipping it into his palm. "Some things deserve to be returned," he said softly, "even when they hurt."

For a moment, we both just stood there, the weight of unspoken things crowding the small porch between us.

Behind him, a warm glow spilled from the living room. A single lamp near the couch cast the space in soft, golden light. There were two mugs sitting on the low table, faint steam curling from one of them.

"Do you want to come in for a minute?" he asked suddenly. "I have tea. Or coffee. Whatever you need."

The answer on my tongue was no. But what came out was, "Tea would be good."

---

Inside, the quiet was the first thing I noticed. It wasn't tense, like silence born from an argument. It was soft, almost deliberate, the kind of quiet that feels lived in, as though the walls themselves had learned to keep secrets.

I sat carefully on the edge of the couch, pressing my palms flat against my knees to keep them still.

Raymond set the cross on the table, near one of the mugs, then moved toward the kettle in the corner of the room. He filled it with practiced ease, his movements quiet, economical.

"How did you really find it?" he asked without turning around.

I shrugged, even though he couldn't see it. "It was behind the lab, near the security light. I thought it was just trash at first."

"Funny," he murmured, still not facing me. "I thought I left it somewhere else entirely."

"Where?"

He didn't answer right away. The kettle hissed, filling the space with its low breath. Finally, he turned, eyes a little distant. "Long story."

He brought two mugs back, hands steady as he set one in front of me. His fingertips brushed the back of my hand when he passed it over, warm and deliberate this time, and he didn't immediately pull away. For a second, neither did I.

Then he moved, almost too quickly, like he'd caught himself revealing something he wasn't ready for.

"Careful. It's hot," he said.

"Thanks." My voice felt softer than usual, like it belonged to someone else.

Steam curled up from the tea, rising between us. I wrapped my hands around the mug just to keep them busy.

"You seem different," I said finally, because silence was starting to feel too heavy.

His eyebrows lifted. "Different how?"

"I don't know. The night you... helped me. You seemed closed off. Like you weren't really standing there."

"Maybe I wasn't," he said quietly.

I hesitated, then asked, "Does it get easier? Being in your own head all the time?"

His eyes met mine, and for a moment, it felt like he could see too much. "No. But you learn to live with the noise."

The kettle clicked off behind him, but neither of us moved to put it away.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, feeling stupid for asking so much. "I shouldn't have-"

"Don't apologize." His tone was calm, but there was something weighted underneath it. "You don't have to pretend that night didn't happen. Or that I'm not..."

"This?" I prompted.

His jaw shifted like he almost regretted saying anything. "A man who doesn't know how to be ordinary anymore."

My chest tightened. "Maybe nobody's really ordinary," I said.

For the first time since I'd met him, he almost smiled. It didn't quite make it all the way, but it softened his face enough to make something in me ache.

"Why did you really come here, Cynthia?"

I looked down at the tea, at my reflection trembling on the surface. "I told you. To return the cross."

"That's not all."

"No," I whispered. "It's not."

He didn't push. Just waited, still and patient, like a man used to long silences.

"I think I just... needed to see you were real."

Something shifted between us then-quiet but undeniable.

"You are," I added softly.

His gaze fell to the cross again. He turned it over in his palm like it might hold answers he couldn't voice.

"I'm sorry I left so fast that night," I said. "After you walked me home. I didn't know how to thank you."

"You didn't have to."

"I did." My throat tightened. "You don't know what it meant. That you were there."

He looked at me for a long moment, and something in his eyes seemed to open, just slightly. "How are you? Really?"

I let out a shaky breath. "Better. Most days."

"And the other days?"

"They still happen."

He nodded, slow and thoughtful, like he understood more than he wanted to admit.

I set the mug down, fingers trembling slightly.

"You don't have to be alone all the time," I said quietly.

His head tilted, almost like he wasn't sure how to process that. "I'm used to it."

"Doesn't mean it's good for you."

That faint ghost of a smile touched his mouth again, quick and fleeting. "Maybe not."

---

The quiet stretched long enough to feel like something tangible, wrapping around the room like warm air from the tea itself.

I stood finally, my legs reluctant, stiff from sitting too still. "I should go," I murmured.

Raymond stood as well, smooth and quick, like leaving me to walk out alone wasn't an option he'd even considered.

Outside, dusk had fully taken over. The air was cool, smelling faintly of rain that hadn't fallen yet. Street lamps hummed faintly as they blinked awake one by one. A dog barked somewhere far down the street, and a child's laughter floated faint and quick through the air.

He followed me onto the porch, one hand brushing the doorframe. "Be careful walking home," he said, his voice low but edged with something-worry, maybe?

"I will."

I hesitated, then let out a breath. "You don't have to stay locked up in here all the time, you know."

He frowned slightly. "It's simpler."

"Simpler doesn't always mean better."

His eyes shifted past me, focusing somewhere on the empty street, and for a moment, it felt like he was searching for an answer he didn't want to give.

"You remind me of someone," he said suddenly, almost like he hadn't meant to speak out loud.

I blinked. "Who?"

He shook his head slightly, dismissing it. "Doesn't matter."

I stepped down the last porch step, fingers brushing the railing. The air between us felt different now-full, like something unspoken had stretched across and settled there.

"Cynthia," he said quietly.

I turned back. "Yeah?"

He reached out suddenly-not forceful, not rushed, just a simple movement-and took my hand. His palm was warm, his grip firm but gentle, and for a moment, neither of us moved.

"Thank you," he said again, voice thick with something I couldn't name.

I swallowed. "For what?"

"For bringing this back." His other hand lifted slightly, holding the cross. "For not letting it stay lost."

The sincerity in his voice made something ache in my chest. "You don't have to thank me for that."

His thumb moved absently over my knuckles, barely there but enough to make my breath catch. Then, almost like he realized what he was doing, he released my hand-slowly, like he didn't want to but knew he should.

"You should go," he said softly, but his eyes stayed on mine a moment longer, lingering as though searching for something.

I nodded, stepping back, but the absence of his touch felt sharper than I expected.

Halfway to the gate, I glanced back. He was still there, leaning against the frame, one hand curled loosely around the cross. And for one strange, suspended second, I wondered what it would feel like to just turn back, step into that warm, quiet house, and stay.

But I didn't. I just smiled-small, shy-and pushed through the gate.

---

Raymond

I stood there until the street swallowed her silhouette, until she turned the corner and was gone.

The porch felt colder immediately, like she'd carried something with her when she left. I closed the door slowly and leaned my forehead against it, drawing in a long breath I didn't realize I needed.

The house behind me seemed too quiet now, like it had shrunk without her presence.

I turned the cross over in my hand again. The edges dug slightly into my skin, grounding me in the moment.

Three years since I last wore it around my neck. Three years since I believed it still meant something. I'd tucked it away because every time I touched it, I thought of the man I used to be-and the people I'd let down.

I sank into the chair by the window and let the cross rest in my palm, staring out at the empty street beyond the glass.

She'd said I didn't have to be alone.

I almost laughed at that. Almost. Because what would I even do with company anymore? How do you let someone in when you've forgotten how to keep doors open?

But then I thought of the way she'd looked at me. Not pitying, not afraid. Just... seeing. Like maybe she believed there was still something worth seeing.

And that scared me more than being alone ever had.

I rubbed my eyes and stood, pacing toward the kitchen. I poured myself a glass of water and stood at the counter, listening to the slow drip of the faucet.

Don't think about her, I told myself. She deserves better than a man who lives like a ghost.

But I thought about her anyway. The way her fingers had lingered in mine for that small, suspended second. The way she'd said my name like it meant something.

---

Cynthia

The walk home felt different-longer somehow, like each street stretched further than I remembered. Maybe it was just my mind replaying things I didn't know how to stop thinking about: his voice, his eyes, the warmth of his hand closing around mine.

I kept one hand in my pocket the whole way, thumb brushing the fabric as though the ghost of that touch still lived there.

When I reached my building, I paused at the door, staring up at the window where I knew the light in our kitchen still burned. My sister would be inside, probably waiting to pounce on me with questions the moment I stepped through.

But before I moved, I closed my eyes for a second and just... breathed.

It wasn't relief I felt, exactly. It was something heavier but softer. Something like being pulled toward a place I wasn't sure I should go, but couldn't ignore.

Raymond's face lingered in my mind as I climbed the stairs, each step echoing too loudly in the narrow stairwell. I thought about the way he'd held that cross like it was a piece of himself-and about the way he'd looked at me when I said he didn't have to be alone.

There had been something there, flickering just enough for me to see it. Hope, maybe. Or fear. Or both.

Inside the apartment, the warmth of home wrapped around me. My mother was in the kitchen, humming softly as she stirred something on the stove. She turned when she saw me, eyebrows raising slightly at the look on my face.

"You okay?" she asked.

I hesitated, then smiled faintly. "Yeah. Just... a long walk."

She nodded, accepting it for now, and turned back to the stove.

I slipped into my room and closed the door behind me, sinking onto the bed. My fingers curled into my lap automatically, like they were still waiting for something to hold.

And I realized I'd walked all the way home with a single, steady thought in my head:

I don't know who you are, Raymond... but I think I want to find out.

---

Raymond

Sleep didn't come easily that night.

I sat by the window long after the lights outside flickered off one by one, leaving only a deep, hushed darkness behind. The cross still rested on the table next to me, catching what little light remained, its edges dull but familiar.

Her voice replayed in my head-soft, sure, you don't have to be alone all the time.

I clenched my fists, leaning back in the chair, and for the first time in months, I didn't feel completely numb.

And that... scared me.

---