I want to be the person who kisses orcs in bookstores and fights city councils and builds something real even when it's terrifying.
I want to be brave. Not the kind of brave that comes with guarantees and safety nets, but the messy, uncertain kind that Aunt Rene just described. The kind that breaks dishes.
My phone goes off again in my palm. Stone, still waiting patiently for an answer about brunch, probably wondering if I've ghosted him entirely after that disaster of a meal.
I type quickly, thumbs trembling slightly over the screen.
Brunch was complicated. Can I come over? We need to talk.
The message sends. I watch those three agonizing dots appear almost immediately, dancing on the screen like they're mocking my racing heartbeat. Then they disappear. Then they come back. He's deleting and retyping, which means he's nervous too.
Finally:
Door's open.
Two words. Simple. But they feel like an invitation to something much bigger than just his apartment.
I head toward his building, weaving through the Saturday afternoon pedestrians on the pavement. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips. I have no idea what I'm actually going to say when I get there. No script, no planned speech, no carefully rehearsed explanation for why I let Evan rattle me so thoroughly, why I let old fears creep back in and make me question everything good that's been building between us.
Just that it needs saying. Whatever "it" even is.
And this time I'm conscious of the choice I'm making. I'm not running toward the comfortable illusion of stability that Evan represents, that safe harbor of familiar disappointment and low expectations.
I'm running toward truth. Toward whatever Stone and I might actually be, scary and uncertain and real as it is.
I'm halfway to Stone's apartment when my phone starts buzzing. Not just one notification. A cascade. Like someone kicked over a digital anthill and every message, tag, and mention comes flooding out at once.
I stop under a coffee shop awning and pull out my phone.
Twitter. Of course it's Twitter.
The original blogger post has exploded. Fifteen hundred retweets. Three thousand comments. A photo of Stone reading to the kids at the bookstore, all soft eyes and theatrical gestures, captioned:When your cultural exchange program turns into a Hallmark movie. Is this integration or just thirst?
My stomach drops.
I scroll. The comments split into camps. Some sweet, some vicious, all deeply invested in a relationship they know nothing about.
This is adorable! Let people be happy!
Tax dollars funding interspecies dating apps now?
That orc is HOT. Good for her.
Conflict of interest much? Fire them both.
Classic white woman fetishizing the Other.
I stop reading. My hands shake.
The DMs are worse. Supportive messages drown under screenshots forwarded by strangers. Local accounts I don't recognize picking apart every interaction, every photo, building narratives from assumptions.
One message stands out. From the civic grants office.
Ms. Ellis, we need to discuss your participation in the cultural festival. Recent publicity raises concerns about program integrity. Please call Monday to review your application status.
Program integrity.
Translation: we might pull your funding because you slept with someone and the internet noticed.
