got a viral photo taken;
made her think I orchestrated the whole thing;
let my phone call prove her worst assumptions;
confirmed I’m exactly the fake, performative person she thinks I am.
Solid work, Kane. Really stellar.
The wind cuts through my jacket. My breath comes out in clouds. My hands are cold, shoved deep in my pockets.
What am I doing?
The smart move: Go home. Leave her alone.
The Rick move: Capitalize on this. Make it work. Get her to play along somehow.
The right move: I have no idea what the right move is anymore.
But if I do nothing, she’s going to find out about the photo from Barcelona from someone else. From Maya. From her own phone blowing up with strangers asking about “Candy’sgirlfriend.” From her face being tagged in posts she never consented to.
And that’s not fair to her.
I pull out my phone. Stare at it. But I don’t have her number.
Never did.
Barcelona was perfect and anonymous, and I ruined it before I could get the details that mattered.
I could probably set up camp at the Ironclad.
Or.
I could go after her right now.
Chase her down the street like I chased that purse thief. Risk making everything worse. Prove I can’t take a hint and don’t understand boundaries.
The January wind makes the decision for me.
I start walking.
Even if I’m crossing a line I have no right to cross.
