“No.”
A beat.
Then Mark lets out a low whistle. “Mutual silence. Bold strategy.”
“It’s respectful,” I counter. “She needed space.”
“And she didn’t need to check in?” Alex asks mildly.
I don’t answer that.
Because that’s the part I don’t have a handle on.
Mark leans back against the desk, arms crossed. “You think she’s mad?”
“No.”
“You think she’s hurt?”
“No.”
Alex watches me for a long second. “You think she’s okay.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t like that,” he finishes.
I look away.
“She doesn’t need me hovering,” I say. “And I’m not starting something I don’t intend to?—”
“Finish?” Mark supplies.
“Repeat,” I snap.
The room goes quiet.
Alex exhales slowly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t lead her on,” Mark adds.
“I know.”
“But you did let her see you,” Alex says. “And that’s new.”
That’s the problem.
I rub a hand over my jaw and stare at the city through the window — all glass and order and distance. So much easier than people.
“She’s not texting because she doesn’t chase,” Mark says finally. “Not because she doesn’t care.”
That feels uncomfortably close to something I don’t want to name.
“And you’re not texting,” Alex adds, “because you’re scared of what happens if she answers.”
I scoff. “I’m not scared.”
