Sally had spent her life chasing certainty—pulling apart moments, unraveling people, pressing her fingers against the pulse of whatever she did not understand until she could name it, hold it, own it. Hershel was the first thing she couldn't touch.
He moved through the world like a man who had already made peace with its mysteries, content to sit in the silence most people tried to fill. He never asked for more than what was given and never demanded what wasn't his.
He watched. He listened. And when he spoke, his words carried the weight of something deliberate.
"Mystery is the answer," Hershel would say, his voice low, steady, laced with something that felt like both a secret and an invitation."
Sally would watch him then, always waiting for him to unravel his riddle. To tell her what that meant, what he meant, and what they meant.
But Hershel never did...
He was a man who understood that not all doors were meant to be opened and that some truths were more potent when left unspoken. And that unsettled her more than anything.
Because Sally had always believed that love should be dissected, examined, and understood. But Hershel? Hershel lived in the space between knowing and not knowing.
And maybe that's why she found herself here, on a quiet night thick with the scent of rain and burning cedar, watching him move through his kitchen as if the world outside didn't ache for answers.
The coffee machine hummed low as he poured the dark liquid into a ceramic cup with his past life mantra printed on it, "DON'T TALK TO ME, UNTIL I HAVE HAD MY CUP OF COFFEE, UNDERLINED WITH A SPLASH OF COGNAC, 2 MG OF XANAX, AND A GOOD CRY", his movements slow, unrushed, ritualistic. He drank coffee at ten o'clock at night because he liked its stillness, the way the steam curled into the air, and the way it marked time without demanding anything from him.
She envied that kind of certainty—that kind of patience. But patience had never been in her nature.
The Storm Within
She had lived like a moth drawn to flames—fascinated by the heat but never staying long enough to burn. Hershel was different. Not a fire, not a storm, not a fleeting thrill.
He was gravity.
Unshakable. Steady. Pulling her toward something she didn't know she needed. But gravity, she learned, is a force you can't fight forever.
The air outside smelled of lavender and rain, thick with the promise that makes you feel alive. She sat on the fire escape, just outside his bedroom, where they made passionate love, and saw dusk till dawn, talking without pause.
Her untouched glass of wine was in her hands, watching Hershel move inside the loft. He didn't fidget. He didn't pace. He simply was—the kind of presence that anchored the air itself.
She should have been at ease. This was everything she never knew she wanted.
But her heart was at war.
Sally had never chosen to stay before. Staying meant surrender. Staying meant she couldn't blame love for slipping through her fingers like it always had.
And that terrified her.
Because what if she failed at this? What if she didn't know how to love someone who let her be free?
What if love had never been the problem—what if she was?
The Question That Changed Everything
She stood abruptly, looking in from the fire escape.
Hershel turned, coffee cup in hand, watching her with those unwavering eyes. He didn't speak, didn't ask, didn't plead. He only waited.
He knew.
Sally had never been tamed.
But she had always been running.
And now, she stood at the edge of a choice she had never been forced to make.
She swallowed hard, her throat dry. "If I leave," she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, "will you come after me?"
Hershel exhaled, slow.
"No," he said simply.
Her chest tightened. "Why not?"
His gaze held hers, steady as the tide.
"Because love isn't a chase, Sally," he murmured. "It's a choice. And I want you to choose me."
The words settled into her, heavy and warm, like a fire catching.
For once, she wasn't being pulled.
For once, she wasn't running.
She had spent her life believing love meant pursuit, passion meant possession, and wanting something meant gripping it tight enough never to let go.
But Hershel did not cage birds just to admire their feathers.
He loved her the way the moon loves the tide—knowing it can pull but never own.
And suddenly, she understood.
She could walk away, and the door would remain open. She could stay, and he never asked for more than she was willing to give.
But for the first time, Sally didn't want the choice to be hers alone.
She wanted to stay—not because she had to.
Not because he begged.
Not because she had nowhere else to go.
But because she had finally found something worth staying for.
And so, she exhaled.
And sat back down.
Hershel watched her, still unmoving, still patient, still waiting—not for her decision, but for her to accept the one she had already made.
She reached for his hand. It was the simplest thing in the world, yet it felt like rewriting history.
For once, she wasn't leaving...
She had spent her life believing that staying meant losing herself. That love meant sacrifice, meant giving away pieces of herself until nothing was left.
But Hershel had never asked for anything but this. For her to be here. Fully Present.
Not trapped. Not chased. Just chosen.
And as the rain began to fall, soft and steady against the roof, the storm inside her finally passed.
Maybe, just maybe, the mystery was the answer after all.
-JSPC ] Wanton Street Crew [
