“Nothing happened,” I said flatly. “It was a mistake. It’s over.”
“Right. Let me guess. You accidentally slept with the man and accidentally ghosted him and accidentally looked like your soul’s been scraped out with a butter knife.”
“Nora—”
“I’m not judging you,” she said, her voice gentler now. “I just… I know you. When you get scared, you dive into work like it’s a lifeboat. But this time? You’re already drowning and pretending it’s just rain.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re faking fine,” she said. “And faking’s not going to cut it with him.”
I stayed quiet, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
“Look,” she said, sighing. “If you really don’t want him, I’ll back off. But if you do… don’t wait until it’s too late.”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
And that scared me more than anything.
I ended the FaceTime call and dropped my phone onto the couch cushion like it might bite me.
“Don’t wait until it’s too late,” I muttered, mocking Nora’s warning. “Great. Super helpful. Thanks, Nor.”
The pit in my stomach pulsed, low and mean.
I shoved my earbuds in and turned up the lo-fi playlist—white noise for a brain I couldn’t shut off. I opened up my spreadsheet tabs again and pretended my inbox didn’t have ten unread messages with Kieren’s name attached to them in some form.
Sponsorship reports. PR tracking. The influencer activation deck Cam asked for. It was all here, all waiting. All controllable. Numbers made sense. Emotions didn’t.
I wished I still did interviews. Wrote innocuous game blogs. But dating a professional soccer player didn't really give me that opportunity anymore. Instead, I was an extension of the team's PR.
Fuck.
I could do this.
Until my phone buzzed again, Cam’s name lighting up my screen.
Hey. I'm sure you saw Kieren's meltdown the other day.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering. I didn’t answer.
A second buzz followed.
Also… thought of another fake date. Could be good PR. Let me know.
My stomach twisted.
I should’ve said no. I wanted to say no. But saying no meant acknowledging the reason why. And I couldn’t afford that—not right now. Not when everything already felt like it was splintering.
I stared at the blinking cursor in the reply box, teeth worrying my lower lip.
Kieren’s voice surfaced, raw and close: “You want me to back off? Say it. Say the words.”
But I hadn’t. And I hadn’t texted him since. And he hadn’t either.
So maybe that was my answer.
