The words feel heavier than they should. I give him a small smile, something to reassure him. Something to convince myself.
His jaw tightens for a second, but then he nods. He doesn’t call me out. Instead, he says,
“You know I’m always here, right? Whenever it starts feeling like too much”
The words settle over me, warm and grounding
I nod. I know.
Silence stretches between us, thick but not uncomfortable. The fight on the TV rages on in the background, the sounds of fists meeting flesh, the roar of the crowd—but I barely hear it.
I press my palms against my thighs and exhale slowly. The truth is, I did have a moment.
At the art exhibition, Alex grabbed my arm, and the memories, dark and distant, had clawed their way into my chest.But it didn’t consume me the way it used to. It didn’t drown me for days like it used to, and maybe that should terrify me, maybe I should be more careful.
But… I wasn’t afraid of Alex and that is the part I can’t quite understand.
“Good,” Tyler finally says, rubbing his palm against the back of his neck. “Just… don’t keep shit bottled up, okay?”
I give him another slight nod. He sighs, muttering something under his breath before turning back to the TV.
I lean back into the couch, my hands still curled into my lap. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know why Alex doesn’t feel like a trigger, even when his presence is loud, all-consuming, and suffocating in ways I should hate.
But I don’t.
Later that night, I lay in bed, staring at my phone screen, the brightness almost blinding in the dark.
The number still sits there in my Cash App—the payment from Alex. It still feels unbelievable.
I roll onto my side, exhaling slowly. I should text him. Say thank you. That’s the polite thing to do, right? But something about texting him feels different.
I hover my fingers over the keyboard, staring at the message box. Every time I start typing, I delete what I've typed immediately.
What do I even say? Hey, thanks for the absurd amount of money? Appreciate you paying me more than my entire paycheck?
I sigh, pressing my face into the pillow. Just text him, idiot.
I lift my phone again, and before I can overthink it, I type:
Lucas:Hey
The moment I hit send, I regret it.
“Hey”? That’s it? I groan, dragging a hand down my face. He’s probably going to leave me on read, wondering why I wasted his time with a half-ass message. A few moments pass, and then—
Seen.
My stomach twists and after a while his reply pops up.
Alex:Lucas.
I hate how just seeing my name typed out like that makes something shiver through me. His voice echoes in my head, the way he says it—low, smooth, like he’s tasting the syllables.
I swallow hard, staring at my screen like it’s betrayed me.
Alex:why are you
texting this late?
