It was now Sunday morning, the apartment felt too quiet. The kind of quiet that follows intimacy- not the romantic kind, but the reflective kind. The kind that forces you to sit with your own thoughts. Russel had spent the night, and now he was gone. Not abruptly. Not coldly. He kissed my forehead before leaving, pulled the blanket over my shoulders, and told me to text him when I woke up. I didn't. I found myself in an odd state of mind or should I say emotion. I was beginning to run from what I thought I wanted. I once questioned his actions and now, I'm questioning my own. Him showing up should've been enough. But consistency doesn't arrive loudly, it steeps in like a French pressed cup of coffee. I stood in the kitchen, staring at my phone. I wanted to text but part of me wanted to brew in clarity. I begin to make me a cookie butter latte with vanilla cold foam but there was little to no heavy whipping cream, so I substituted for whipped cream instead. It wasn't perfect but what is? The flowers that Russel bought over last week were still fresh, still beautiful, but the thought of them felt heavier than before. I took another sip of my latte before settling down on the couch. Comfort had always been Russel's strength, it's what I craved whenever he would disappear. Now look at me becoming Casper the friendly ghost himself. I took another sip and began to ponder on what I deemed to be perfect. I replayed that weekend piece by piece. The bath, the soup, the way he held me like I was his. And yet when I'm given the things that I quietly asked of a man, I question the consistency, I question the reality. Clarity has a way of pulling the curtains back on patterns we've been decorating. I saw how Russel showed up time after time. I wasn't sure if I was afraid of letting him all the way in.