Ben:I'm actually
Ben:Talking to you
I'm tempted to write I'm Emma Lawson now, but I keep itto myself.
Me:If you start spamming me, I'll block you again
Ben:Wouldn't dream of it. You look good in my texts again
Ben:And I know how fast you disappear
Me:Funny! You writing your own material?
Half a day passes with nothing.
I almost check his socials ten different times, thumb hovering, stomach knotted, but don't, because I'm more avoidant than curious, every single time.
Until today, I pretended he wasn't here, but now that he's lodged under my skin I've got a new reason—Lisa.
If I don't see her, she remains abstract, and Ben available in my imagination.
Later, brushing my teeth, I stare at his last message, convincing myself that's all it was. Leftover rhythm. I shouldn't want more. Probably wouldn't reply anyway.
And no, I'm not the kind of girl who spends an hour digging through old e-mails just to find the name of his cologne. The one I bought him for Christmas, which I definitely didn't break two days later, soaking his sofa to the point he suffocated because—I'm not clumsy.
Except I am that girl.
Fingers scrolling past years of receipts until—there, Creed. The kind of scent guys get to compensate for bad looks, which means he should be banned from wearing it because on him? It lands like a grenade.
11:04 p.m., just as the perfume name blazes on my screen, so does his.
Ben:Hey, I want to make things less awkward. Be friends again. Let's grab a coffee. Just the two of us
I stare so long the words feel permanently branded on the inside of my skull.
Don't reply. Like you said. Just shut the phone and go to sleep. You need to sleep on this.
Thirty minutes later, I'm still awake, hovering over the receipt for his cologne, debating whether I should reorder—don't ask me why, no sensible reason behind it—when I get another ping.
Ben:Emma. You at least owe me to know how you've really been
He's playing that guilt card, and it lands square. My lip's already paying the price as I chew on it.
Rational Emma screams:You're both married. This is unacceptable.
But the other Emma who still answers to his voice whispers:That's why it's safe. Both of you are locked away. No risk. Just friends.
Maybe I want that. He was my best friend once after all, and I want to know he's been doing okay.
Me:Fire
(That was supposed to be "Fine." My thumb slipped, or it was auto-correct, either way, kill me.)
Ben:Fire? Guess we're skipping small talk and going straight to arson
Me:Don't get excited. It was a typo, pyromaniac
Ben:Too late. Got a place in mind. Appropriate. Promise
