God, he looks tired.
He's so hot.
He crosses the street toward the parking lot. For a second, he pauses, glancing around like some part of himfeelsme watching.
I hold my breath so tightly, I get dizzy.
Don't get into a car.
Please.
Red passes the lot, and the decision almost knocks the wind out of me. I stay tucked behind the corner of the brick wall as he steps onto the sidewalk, slipping his hands into his pockets.
The city shifts into late afternoon. The sky bruises purple, and people move in clusters or alone. Red moves through it like someone who doesn't want to be noticed. His pace is steady but not rushed, shoulders tight, gaze fixed forward as if he's trying to outrun the weight of everything we said today.
I wait ten seconds before trailing after him, keeping enough distance that he'd never catch my reflection in a window or feel the shape of someone behind him. The city noise helps. Cars rattle, people chatter, dogs bark, and music leaks out of open bar doors. Red doesn't look back once. He doesn't even check his phone. He walks, jaw set, as though his thoughts are so loud, he doesn't have room for anything else.
I match his pace block for block, breathing when he inhales, stopping when he pauses at lights, hiding my face whenever he turns a corner. People bump into me, but I don't flinch. My focus stays glued to him and his frame, his stride, and that small, heavy slouch in his shoulders that tells me today hit him harder than he'll ever admit.
He turns down a quieter street, the kind with wide sidewalks. He still doesn't look behind him, trusting the world too much.
It makes me ache. A man like him shouldn't walk alone with a mind that heavy. And I know I caused it.
When he finally reaches his building, he steps inside without looking back.
I wait a moment, then step into the lobby and go to the mailboxes. I read the names on the boxes until I see his.
423
I say it over and over until it's lodged in my brain, never to be forgotten.
My chest swells. I debate about going to his floor but decide to play it safe. I can't give him a reason to tell me goodbye. But if he does, then I'll make my move and plead my case until he understands.
I don't want him.
I need him.
All the things I've told myself since I left his office, I reiterate.
He won't choose goodbye. He can't.
He told me today I wasn't unfixable.
It's not that I don't want you,his voice says in my head.
I smile, the warm feeling bursting throughout me.
He does want me.
Choosing the safer option, I touch his mailbox, tracing the numbers and whispering, "I know where to find you, lover."
Then I stroll home, lighter than I've felt in years. By the time I step inside my apartment, my heart is still racing from the thrill of following Red through the city and knowing his condo number.
Within minutes, my apartment feels smaller than normal. It's too quiet. I drop my bag and pace from the kitchen to the couch, replaying today's session in pieces. All I keep hearing is his voice.It's not that I don't want you.
I stop in the middle of the living room, pressing my fingertips to my lips as if I can seal that sentence inside me forever. He didn't even try to take it back or pretend it wasn't true. It was raw and shaken. And it wasn't a therapist trying to manage a patient. It was a man confessing something he isn't supposed to want.
He wants me.
