Like he already knows the next round is coming.
***
By the time work ends, I’m wrung out.
Emails. Schedules. Conversations I pretended not to hear.
And every few hours a text from Mark.
Can we talk?
Please answer.
I miss you.
By the fourth one, my stomach is tight and my pulse is high and I’m suddenly very aware I’m not as past him as I thought.
I walk into the parking lot telling myself I will just go home, take a shower, eat something comforting, and forget this day existed.
Then I see him.
Standing beside my car.
Holding. A. Guitar.
Of course he is.
Because the man doesn’t know how to have a normal conversation like a human adult, he has to show up like the ghost of every Nicholas Sparks adaptation.
He brightens when he sees me. “Belle.”
I flinch.
He steps forward. “I didn’t want you to think the flowers were… dramatic. I just… I wanted to remind you what we were. What we had.”
I keep my distance. “Mark, you shouldn’t be here.”
He laughs softly. “Come on. We’re not strangers.”
“We’re not together either.”
That hits. His smile falters. “We were happy.”
“We were comfortable,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
He swallows. “Let me play you something. Just one thing. I wrote it for you.”
“No.” My voice is firmer now. “Mark, listen— this isn’t—”
Footsteps echo behind me.
Slow.
Confident.
Controlled.
I don’t have to turn around.
