“I don’t think you’re a stalker,“ Holly interrupted quietly. “I do, however, think you’re a brilliant, socially awkward man who doesn’t think about how his actions might affect other people.”
I didn’t know if that was better or worse than being called a stalker.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I should have told you immediately. I should have asked permission before running your profile. I should have?—”
“Yes, you should have.” She exhaled shakily. “But I think I can also understand why you didn’t. Sort of. You’re … you approach everything like it’s a problem to be solved. Including relationships. And I get that. I really do. But Luke, I’m not a problem; I’m a person. And I need you to see the difference.”
“I do see the difference,” I said, my throat tight. “I know you’re not a problem to solve. You’re …” I struggled for words that would be enough, all the while knowing none would be. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Holly pressed her hands to her face, breathing slowly. When she lowered them, her eyes were suspiciously bright.
“I need some time,” she said finally. “To think about this. To process.”
My heart sank. “Of course. Whatever you need.”
“I’m not angry,“ she added quickly. “I mean, I am. But mostly I’m just overwhelmed. This is a lot to take in, and I need some time to sit with my feelings and figure out how to handle it.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” She tilted her head, her eyes cataloguing every micro-expression on my face, reading me the way I usually read data. “Because from where I’m standing, you just told me that some algorithm thinks we’re perfect for each other. And yeah, I felt drawn to you from the start, but now I can never know if that’s because we actually have something real or if I’m always going to wonder if I only feel that way because an app told me that’s what’s supposed to happen. I need to figure that out.”
She moved past me toward the living room, and I watched as she gathered her clothes from where they’d been scattered the night before—her sweater draped over the couch arm, her leggings in a pile by the fireplace, her underwear half-hidden under a pillow.
Each piece of clothing she gathered carved out another piece of me.
The fear that had been lurking in my chest since I woke up crystallized into something sharp and painful. “Are you leaving?”
She stopped halfway across the living room, her shoulders sagging. When she turned back to me, her eyes were soft and her mouth was turned down at the corners—sad rather than angry. “I need space, Luke.”
“Your house doesn’t have power,” I reminded her in a last-ditch attempt to keep her here.
“I’ll figure it out.” She moved down the hallway toward the powder room—presumably to change out of my robe—then stopped, clutching her bundled clothes against her chest. “Can you drive me? Or should I call someone?“
“I’ll drive you,“ I said immediately. “Just … let me get dressed.” I glanced down at what I was wearing, flannel sleep pants and an old college t-shirt I’d thrown on when we came downstairs.“Give me five minutes.”
The driveto her house was silent.
Not the comfortable quiet we’d shared before, but something heavy and oppressive that made it hard to breathe. Holly stared out the window, her jaw tight, her hands twisted in her lap.
Every apology I formulated in my head sounded hollow. Every declaration of love felt like pressure. Every plea for another chance reeked of desperation.
When I pulled up in front of her house, Holly reached for the door handle but didn’t immediately get out.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For driving me. And for … for telling me. Even though it was hard to hear it.”
“I should have told you sooner.”
“Yeah. You should have.“ She turned to look at me, and her expression was a mixture of hurt and confusion and something else I couldn’t quite discern. “But I appreciate that you told me at all. That counts for something.”
“Does it count for enough?”
She didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know yet. I need … I just need time, Luke. Can you give me that?”
“As much as you need,” I said, even though the thought of waiting—of not knowing if she was going to come back to me—made my chest feel hollowed out, my lungs struggling to expand properly.
“Okay.” She opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air. “I’ll call you. Soon. I promise.”
And then she was gone, disappearing into her house without looking back.
