I drop a grenade and you send me one syllable like we’re not deeply entangled disasters with a flair for theatrics?
Get invested, TF. I need judgment or fanfare or at least a dramatic gasp.
Okay, fine?—
GASP.
CLUTCHES PEARLS.
Faints onto a velvet chaise.
Happy now?
Now tellme:
Was it good?
Was it bad?
Was it so amazing it’s now your Roman Empire?
I regret it.
That bad?
No. That GOOD!
The typing bubbles start. Stop. Start again.
And that’s a bad thing?
It is.
Sounds like someone’s overthinking.
Sounds like someone doesn’t know the full story.
So tell me.
I stare at that message, thumb poised and ready. I could ghost this entire conversation, pretend I’m busy. But the truth is, I’ve been carrying this around all damn day. And somehow, she’s the only person I feel safe enough to admit it to.
It wasn’t just a hook up. It was a revelation. And also a mistake.
I’m confused. I thought you said it was good?
I did. That’s the problem.
What’s the worst that happens? You see her again? Hook up with her again? Date?
The worst that happens is I lose everything.
There’s a longer pause this time.
There’s more to this.
Yeah. There is.
Typing bubbles. Stop. Start. Stop.
