Iamcautious.
But there’s something calming in the simplicity of it.No expectations.No awkward pauses or social scripts to follow.Just the soft rhythm of back-and-forth words with someone who doesn’t know who I’m supposed to be.A tiny proof that I can choose the small things, my words, my name, and survive the choice.If I can do this, maybe I can make one real friend.Maybe I can spend a whole day alone and not feel like I’m disappearing.
And maybe that’s what I like most.
He’s talking tome.
Not the version of myself I rehearse.
A man stands ahead, his form cloaked in shadow.His aura is undeniably dominant and unavoidable.
We’re in a forest.The trees tower above us, their needles slick with rain.I can smell pine and wet earth, sharp and grounding.Above us, the stars above us sparkle so vibrantly that I reach up to touch them.
The man strides with a confidence that compels admiration, and the dark parts for him.Suddenly, he turns, presenting me with his back, and begins to walk away.A panic seizes me, not at the prospect of his departure, but at the thought of being left behind in this oppressive darkness without the strange comfort his terrifying presence provides.
An urge to follow washes over me, compelling and irrational.My feet move of their own accord, but with each step I take, he seems to drift farther away, swallowed step by step into the thick velvet of the dark.
The dream shifts, becoming a labyrinth of shadows and whispers.I'm chasing a monster, a man who is both a nightmare and a savior.The closer I think I am, the more elusive he becomes.The atmosphere tightens, suffocating, as if the very air is alive with his essence.I can't make out his face, but the power of his presence is unmistakable, drawing me deeper into the forest.
And then, as abruptly as it began, the chase ends.I'm left standing alone in the dark.His figure dissolves into the horizon like mist.There in one breath, gone the next.A sense of loss grips me, the void he leaves behind more frightening than the pursuit.The dream, vivid and intense as a memory, lingers on the edge of my consciousness, leaving a residue of fear and fascination as my alarm bounces off my bedroom walls and forces me awake.
He’s gone.
And I miss him.
I open my eyes, but the powerful essence of his presence persists, prompting me to ponder whether the man I've been texting with dwells in the shadows beyond the reach of light.The man on the street lives there too, outside the light’s reach, still snagging in my peripheral.If I squint, turn fast enough, or blink long enough, maybe his face will become clear.Maybe the tingling under my skin will quit.
Dragging myself out of the tangled thoughts and sheets, I prepare for the day so I can head to the office.In the kitchen, last night’s ghost hasn’t left.He leans near the knife block in warning, thumb rubbing the edge of a turquoise-colored ring I swear wasn’t on his hand yesterday.He doesn’t speak—he never does.The meaning just presses into my mind, a thought that isn’t mine settling into my bones.He tips two fingers toward the back door and then the windows.Count your exits.Always know how many and where.He nods once at the knives.Watch your back.The message lands as an instruction, not a fear.I count by odds to steady myself.It only half works.
I pack my work bag, then do something I’ve never done: slide a kitchen knife from the block into the inner pocket.The ghost smirks, thumb grazing that turquoise ring.I count by odds to the door.To the garage.To the driver’s seat.Yesterday I was too scared to drive, but today I turn the key and shift out of park.In three.Out five.In seven.I merge—white-knuckled but moving—odds steadying the lights and the noise until my breath matches the traffic.I reach the office, find a spot, put it in park, scan my surroundings, then step out.The knife’s weight in my bag is a strange kind of calm as I walk myself through the glass.
Wyatt’s by the water cooler, his surprise at seeing me as clear as the flicker of guilt I feel.
“Melinda,” he says, his tone a mix of surprise and something I can't quite place, disappointment, maybe?“You, uh, disappeared on me last night.”
A flush of embarrassment creeps up my neck.“Wyatt, I'm so sorry.It completely slipped my mind.I actually tried texting you earlier than that last message, but got the number wrong the first time.It wasn't intentional, I promise.”
He studies me for a beat, then his expression softens.“It's okay.I figured something might've come up.Just wasn't sure what.”
The air between us is thick with awkwardness, that I desperately want to dissipate.“Can I make it up to you?”I offer.“Lunch, on me, today?”
It’s safer than dinner.There’s a time limit.We can leave for lunch, but we’re expected to be back at a specific time.Unlike dinner, where Wyatt could’ve held me hostage for God knows how long.It loosens the tightness in my chest that appeared yesterday at the thought of going out into the city with a stranger.We’re with other people at work.There will be plenty of people around at lunch and we’ll return to people afterward.
I can do lunch.
He considers this, then nods with a small smile.“Sure, Melinda.Lunch sounds good.”
Relieved, I make my way to my desk, the tension of the awkward encounter slowly lifting off my shoulders.I settle in, coffee in hand, ready to tackle the day’s emails, when my phone pings with a new message.The sudden sound makes my heart leap.Without even looking, I know it's him.
Cassius.
I sneak a glance at the screen.His name glows back at me.A small thrill runs through me as his message appears, and somewhere quiet inside me that’s been packed in tissue and stored on a top shelf, unfolds an inch.
Cassius:
What does an editor actually do at 9:15 a.m.?
Rearrange pens.
