I hit send. My stomach twists. Shame. Nerves. Rage. Hope. It’s all a chemical storm inside me.
Almost instantly, he replies.
I move like a ghost through the house, the wooden floors cold beneath my bare feet. I grab a cider from the fridge and return to the sanctuary of my room.
Stripping down, I run the bath, the scent of white pear salts clouding the air as steam rises and curls around me. I sink into the hot water like it can baptize me in something new. Cleanse me of everything I can’t seem to let go of.
The phone buzzes again. His message lights the screen.
“How close is too close… before the line between obsession and pleasure blurs?”
A shiver ripples through me.
I take a long drink of the cider, the heat of the bath and the alcohol blurring my edges. Everything is aching and on fire.
“Depends on what burns first,” I write back.
His answer is swift.
“Well, we could start by talking… see where that takes us.”
I trace the rim of the bottle with my finger, my pulse a slow, steady throb. What are we doing? Why does this feel like playing with fate?
Still, I type: “Let’s see what kind of heat we can create.”
“Definitely,” he replies. “Life is beautiful when chances are taken.”
I giggle. It slips out of me unguarded. A sound I haven’t heard in weeks. It’s strange how grief and desire can sit so close together.
He doesn’t know it’s me. And still…something in this strange interaction twists inside me like a knife.
I down the rest of the cider, the bottle clinking softly against the tiles as I set it aside. Then I slip beneath the water, letting it close over my body, my ears, my chaos.
And for a few fleeting seconds… There is no Blake. No heartbreak. No endings. Just silence. Just the warmth of water and the ache of what used to be.
It’s about who you miss at 2 PM when you’re busy, not 2 AM when you’re lonely.
It’s 2 PM.
I’ve been buried in articles and research for hours, mindlessly scanning profiles, dating bios, and pickup lines that make me question how the hell these men even function in the real world.
Like, does this shit actually work?
“If you kiss my neck, I’m not responsible for what happens next.”
I laughed so hard I nearly snorted. That line’s making the article.
Still chuckling hours later, my thoughts drift. To Blake. Like they always do when I’m trying not to.
I pull my phone from the desk and shoot him a text:
Tell me, baby, where did I go wrong? Was it losing Gracie?
Five minutes. Nothing.
Ten.
Still nothing.
