Nina had been holding back the same feeling for four years. It wasn't anger — or not only anger. It was something more complicated: the particular weight of a wrong that was never acknowledged, and the even heavier weight of her own decision to say nothing. She had told herself, at the time, that she was being mature. That she was choosing peace. That letting it go would come naturally once enough time had passed. But she hadn't let go. She had only held back — which is not the same thing at all. Holding back is a posture. Letting go is an action. One requires tension; the other requires release. She realised this on an ordinary Wednesday, sitting in traffic, when she noticed that her jaw was clenched and had been, probably, for four years.

Thomas had planned to hold back. He had rehearsed it on the drive over: stay calm, stay controlled, say only what needed to be said, hold back the rest. But when he sat down across from his brother — who he hadn't spoken to in three years — and saw how much older he looked, something shifted. He let go of the rehearsed version. He said the things he'd been holding back and the things he hadn't planned to say. He said he was sorry. He said he missed him. He said the distance had cost him more than he had ever admitted. His brother was quiet for a moment. "I thought you didn't care," he said. "I held back," Thomas said. "I thought I was protecting myself. I was just holding on to something that was hurting me."