It felt like a date. And I’m not done feeling that way. Not yet.
I close my eyes and wriggle around until I find some semblance of comfortable. But still sleep doesn’t come easily.
I keep shifting under the covers, kicking them off, pulling them back up. My mind won’t shut up. It keeps replaying the evening like a favorite song on loop, each note more familiar and more dangerous the longer it plays.
I think about how his eyes darted away when I asked why he left town. How his fingers curled into his palm like he was holding something sharp and didn’t want to let it go. How, for one fragile moment, he let the guardrails down and told me, in that quiet, reluctant way, “I just needed to disappear for a while.”
And God, did that hit me in the chest.
I get it. I really do. There have been a thousand mornings when I wanted to do the same. When the weight of expectations and disappointments felt so heavy, I thought aboutpacking a bag and walking until my legs gave out. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him now. Because beneath all the restless energy and half-smiles, I recognize someone running from his own shadow.
The clock on my nightstand blinks. 1:17 a.m.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to sleep, but it’s no use. My brain is too loud. My heart is even louder.
What if this is my second chance? The question ambushes me, half-wild and aching with hope.
What if I don’t let him drift away this time?
Because I did, once. I let him go. I let him slip through the cracks of routine and unanswered group chats. He slipped away while I was keeping it casual and pIaying it cool. I didn’t know he was going to disappear, but I still let him go.
And afterwards, when he was gone and I thought about him, and oh God did I think about him, I convinced myself it didn’t matter. I told myself it was nothing. Just an old work friend. Just nostalgia.
But it’s not just nostalgia. Not anymore.
Tonight proved that.
I throw the covers off completely and pace across my bedroom, restless as hell. My apartment feels too small, too quiet. I think about texting him again, just something simple, something not at all cool like‘Are you still awake?’
But I don’t. Because I know if he’s awake, he’s probably lying in his bed, replaying tonight just like I am. And if he’s not, I don’t want to wake him and risk shattering whatever delicate thread is still holding us together.
Even so, my fingers itch for my phone.
I wonder if he’s waiting for me to say something more. I wonder if he’s staring at his screen, hoping for a second message that never came. I wonder if he’s afraid. If he’s standing on the same edge I am, looking down and wondering if it’s safe to jump.
The truth is, I want to tell him everything.
I want to tell him I noticed the way his hands trembled. I want to tell him I caught the flicker of sadness in his eyes. I want to tell him I’ve thought about him more times than I can count, in quiet moments between calls at work, while standing in line for coffee, while lying in bed and staring at the ceiling just like this.
I want to tell him I missed him. Stupidly, deeply, irrationally missed him.
But I don’t. Because I’m terrified I’ll push too hard, too fast, and he’ll vanish all over again.
So instead, I pace. I pace until my legs ache and my chest tightens with the weight of everything unsaid.
I have to find that thin line, that precarious balance between letting him slip away and coming on too strong and pushing him away.
When I finally crawl back into bed, the sheets are cold. My mind races in endless circles, but slowly, exhaustion drags me under.
And just before sleep claims me, a quiet thought slips through the fog.
Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I’ll say more. Maybe tomorrow I’ll send a real message instead of just a heart reaction. Maybe tomorrow I’ll take the risk.
Because tonight, he opened a door. Just a crack. But it was enough. Enough to let in the light. Enough to let me hope.
Morning comes too early.
The sunlight slices through the blinds, throwing bars of gold across my face. My phone is still on my nightstand, the screen dark, no new notifications. My chest dips a little at that, but I tell myself it’s fine. I wasn’t expecting anything overnight.
