Which is worse, somehow. Silence is neutral. Silence means the story isn’t finished. Silence leaves room for hope, and hope is dangerous when you’ve already proven you can’t be trusted with it.
I stand. Pace. Stop. Pace again.
My apartment is spotless, like a hotel room. No fingerprints. No warmth. No evidence of life. I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge out of habit.
Water. Blueberries. Condiments that have never been opened.
I shut it again and press my forehead against the stainless steel.
God, I miss the bakery. I miss the noise. The heat. The way exhaustion there feels earned, not hollow. I miss the smell of yeast and sugar and burnt edges. I miss being told what to do, doing it badly, and getting better at it.
I miss Tess.
That thought lands harder than the rest, sharp and bright and unwelcome.
I don’t let myself linger on it. Missing her doesn’t entitle me to anything. Missing her is just a consequence.
My phone buzzes.
I don’t look at it immediately, because I don’t trust my heart not to break something if I do.
Eventually, I flip it over.
ZANE: u alive, or did gluten finally kill you?
I huff out something that might almost be a laugh.
ME: Alive. Though I should be asking you after last night’s game.
Three dots appear instantly.
ZANE: I’m fine. Nothing a warm bath couldn’t fix.
ZANE: Julian says ur spiraling
I glance at the time. Late. Too late for Julian to be sober and correct at the same time.
ME: I’m fine.
The lie tastes thin.
ZANE: Leo
ZANE: don’t do rich guy panic things tonight
I close my eyes.
ME: I know.
A beat.
ZANE: do u though
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes again, this time a call.
Julian.
I answer before he can hang up.
