Triple check.
• Emotional whiplash—hot one moment, cold the next.
I literally just hitpause. I am the whiplash.
My thumb stalls on the next line.
• Frequent “coincidental” run-ins or manufactured meetings that make it feel like fate.
Shit.
Because yeah, we’ve had a lot of “coincidences” lately, haven’t we? The rooftop. Trivia night. Cross’s party. Even Muncan’s, where I just happen to buy my steaks, even though it’s on the other side of the goddamn city.
I toss my phone onto the bed, watching it bounce once before landing face-down like even it’s ashamed of me.
Jesus.
I just scrolled through a checklist of romantic manipulation tactics and found my name on every single one.
This isn’t who I am. This isn’t what I do. I don’t get swept up. I don’t lose control. I sure as hell don’t send women constellations after a week or so of knowing them and then hit them with a corporate-sounding “let’s pause” email like an sentimental cyborg.
And yet… here I am. Practically waving a red flag.
There’s only one person who can talk me off this ledge.
With a groan, I reach for my phone.
You up?
That sounded like a booty text. It’s not.
I might be having a psychological emergency.
I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling. TF’s gonna rip me apart for this.
I deserve it.
Hey, Stranger. How was your day?
Long. You?
I’ve had better. Ate an obscene amount of takeout and spent an embarrassing amount of time debating whether folding laundry is a capitalist scam.
Interesting take.
Thank you. I’m starting a movement. #WrinklePride.
Her messages come in rapid-fire bursts of sarcasm and wit that always manage to disarm me. It’s muscle memory at this point, my fingers replying before my brain can analyze every word. And that’s why I don’t stop myself from typing the next one.
I hooked up with someone.
Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.
Then—
Oh?
Oh? That’s all I get?
