I felt it happen more than saw it—the magic releasing its grip, one option at a time. Jimmy dissolved like morning mist, his powder-blue polo the last thing to go. Greg faded mid-“groovy,” his leisure suit shimmering into nothing. Ryan, Derek, the faces I couldn’t name—all of them winking out of existence.
The match count on my phone plummeted. 11,234 to 8,000. To 5,000. To 1,000. To 100.
To zero.
The screen went dark. Silent. For the first time in weeks, completely still.
I stared at it. Then at the empty sidewalk where my entire romantic history had just dissolved.
Then at Marcus, who hadn’t moved from the doorway.
“They’re gone,” I whispered.
He didn’t respond. Just stood there, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t read. The silence stretched between us, and I felt my heart climbing into my throat.
This was it. The exes were gone, the magic was quiet, and now there was nothing between us but the truth. He could still say no. He could still close the door. He could still decide that everything I’d said wasn’t enough to make up for two days of silence and five years of fear.
“Marcus?” My voice came out small. Uncertain. “Say something. Please.”
He took a breath. Let it out slowly.
“You actually did it,” he said finally. “You chose.”
“I did.” I couldn’t tell if that was good or bad. His voice was too careful, too controlled. “I meant it. Every word.”
“In front of your prom date from 1996.”
“And a man in a leisure suit, yes.”
“And at least a dozen other men whose names you probably don’t remember.”
“Definitely don’t remember. There was one guy I think I went on half a date with? He left to take a call and never came back.”
Marcus’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
“You came back,” he said quietly. “After I closed the door. After I said all those things. You came back.”
“You were right. About all of it.” I swallowed. “I was treating you like an option. I was using you for the quiet. I was too scared to admit what I actually wanted.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m still scared.” I met his eyes. “I’m terrified, actually. But I’m more scared of losing you than I am of choosing wrong.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached out, slowly, and took my hand.
“I said some harsh things.”
“You said true things. There’s a difference.”
“I told you I couldn’t be your maybe.”
“You can’t. I don’t want you to be.” I squeezed his hand. “I want you to be my yes. My only yes. If you’ll have me.”
Something shifted in his expression. The walls he’d built—the careful, guarded grief he’d been carrying for two years—cracked. Just a little. Just enough to let something else through.
“I’m not easy,” he said. “I’m grumpy. I’m set in my ways. I’ll probably complain about everything and make tea at inappropriate times.”
“I’m terrified. I’ll probably panic at least once a week and need you to talk me down.”
