I pretend I don’t feel the hollow drop in my chest when I realize I won’t see him. Even though I most likely will make a complete fool out of myself when I do.
Sara clocks my haggard appearance immediately. “You look like someone stole your emotional support iced coffee,” she says, sliding into the chair next to my desk.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She squints at me. “Did something happen?”
“No.”
She waits.
“Maybe,” I admit.
Her grin is instantaneous. “I knew it.”
I bury my face in my hands. “How do you know?”
“You’re glowing and miserable,” she says. “That’s your tell.”
I shake my head, but tell her everything. The holding hands. The flirting. The way he listened, really listened, when I talked about crowds and noise and how my brain short-circuits when I’m the center of attention.
“He said his roommate used to get panic attacks,” I mumble. “He didn’t make it weird. He didn’t pity me. He just… understood.”
Sara sighs dreamily. “Liz. That man has it bad for you.”
“He’s my boss,” I remind her weakly. “And he probably just felt bad for me. He’s kind to everyone.”
“He held your hand,” she counters. “Outside of work. In a coffee shop, with snow swirling outside the window. That’s a rom-com moment.” She sighs happily and returns to her desk.
I spend the rest of Monday oscillating between productivity and absolute distraction. Every email notification makes my heart jump. Every footstep down the hall sounds like it could be him.
It never is. Because he’s not in the office. My brain knows this, but my heart keeps yearning for him.
Tuesday is worse.
I reread his emails like they’re personal letters. They’re not.
They’re professional. Polite. Efficient. Like Ethan himself.
Like he was in the coffeeshop. Well, he was polite. But he wasn’t efficient or professional. Unless he thinks it’s professionally efficient to comfort a coworker. I ask Sara what she thinks about that, and she just rolls her eyes as an answer.
I know I’m obsessing, and yet, I can’t make myself stop.
I imagine his voice saying my name. I imagine him at the party. I imagine how he might look in something dark and tailored, how his smile might soften when he sees me.
By Tuesday afternoon, Sara has banned me from saying his name.
“You’re spiraling,” she says gently.
“I know,” I whisper.
After work, I stand in front of my closet and feel actual dread.
The Christmas party is tomorrow.
Wednesday. A weekday. Because, apparently, joy is cheaper when scheduled midweek.
I pull out a dress. Too red. Too festive. I’ll look like I’m trying too hard.
