NOLAN
The secondI hit send on that email, my chest caved. Due to my own cowardice.
I did it.
I pulled the plug on something that didn’t feel casual. On something that, for one night, felt like a beginning. I hit pause, trying to protect us both but the truth is, I panicked.
That article about lovebombing? Chloe’s voice in my head calling me over the top with gestures? Rorie’s cautious-vibe email?
All kindling into this wildfire of doubt, and I let it burn straight through my better judgment.
Now I’ve iced her out in a professionally worded rejection that reads more like a cease-and-desist than a conversation.
By the time I get home, my body is coiled tight with tension, jaw aching from how long I’ve been chewing on this regret.
My mind hasn’t stopped spinning since the second I hit send. The email was short. Neat. Respectful. The kind of message you write when you’re afraid of being seen too clearly. When you’d rather ghost your own vulnerability than admit you might’ve felt something.
I practically engraved distance into the signature line.
So if Rorie was already pulling away, I just handed her the scissors and told her to cut the cord.
Fuck!
I step into my loft and let the door slam shut behind me, the sound ricocheting through the stillness like a verdict. I rip off my tie, drag my jacket from my shoulders, and toss it somewhere I won’t see it for a while. My clothes hit the floor in a trail of self-sabotage.
Vinyl crackles in the background, moody, low, some jazz track I usually lose myself in.
But tonight, the silence is louder. And for the first time in a long time…
I don’t want to be alone with it.
I collapse onto the bed, arms flung out like I’ve just survived a war. And in a way, I have. The emotional equivalent, at least. Except this battle? I started it. And now I’ve got no one to blame but myself.
Staring up at the ceiling, my mind drifts where it wants, which, predictably, is straight to Rorie.
That maddening, beautiful, complicated woman has carved herself into my thoughts, lodged deep beneath the skin. And I hate it.
But I wanted that. I wanted her.
What did I do instead?
I freaked out.
I scroll through the article again, slower this time, looking for a punch to the dick I know is coming.
• Intense gifts early on.
Yep. That’s a big fucking check.
• Over-the-top flattery and attention.
Okay… yeah. I basically told her she made a bathroom sink holy ground. That probably counts.
• Creating a sense of “us” too quickly.
Christ.
• Idealizing the person before really knowing them.
