Caleb’s suspicion remains.
Unresolved.
Unspoken.
It exists the way weather does when the sky can’t quite decide what it’s going to do. Not storming. Not clearing. Just hanging there, heavy enough to register if you pay attention, easy enough to ignore if you don’t.
I don’t rush to fix it.
That, in itself, feels like a decision.
In the past, unresolved tension would have demanded action. A conversation. A correction. Some visible effort to restore equilibrium. I would’ve treated it like a problem left unattended, something that could escalate if I didn’t intervene soon enough. I’d have rehearsed explanations in my head, weighed which version of honesty would cause the least disruption, looked for the quickest way to close the gap.
Now, I let it sit.
Not out of avoidance.
Out of ass
