“So,” he says finally. “You want to do this again?”
I’m caught off guard. Not by the question, but by how much I want to say yes.
“Yeah,” I say, because I need it to be true. “I’d like that.”
He smiles, leans in, and kisses my cheek. “You’re cute when you’re not trying to be.”
I laugh, but it comes out hollow.
He checks his watch, then says, “I have to jump on a call in ten. You can stay as long as you want, just lock up when you go.”
“Okay.”
He stands, finishes his coffee, and disappears back into the bedroom.
I hear the water run, the door click, the rustle of clothes.
He re-emerges a few minutes later in a crisp dress shirt and tailored pants, every inch of him put together.
He grabs the laptop, the stack of notebooks, and gives me a quick nod before ducking into the study, where I hear his voice a minute later, calm, confident, making deals or breaking them, I can’t tell.
I finish my coffee, rinse the cup, and sit back on the couch.
My phone is still dead, so I plug it into the charger on the end table and wait.
When it finally boots, there are exactly zero new messages. Not from Darius, not from anyone.
I scroll through my contacts, thumb hovering over his name.
I want to text him, want to ask if he’s okay, if we’re okay, if last night was as much of a mistake as it feels right now.
Instead, I type out: “hey how’s your morning.”
I stare at it for a full minute before hitting send.
The reply is almost immediate. A thumbs-up emoji.
That’s it.
No words. No jokes. No sarcasm. Just a single, perfect thumb, like he’s saying, “I’m alive. That’s all you get.”
It lands like a punch.
I pull on my clothes, gather my stuff, and stand in the entryway for a long time, staring out at the empty hallway.
I want to scream, or run, or smash something, but instead I just breathe.
I unlock the door, step into the cold, and let it close behind me.
The city is waking up, but it feels like it’s moving in slow motion, every person I pass locked in their own orbit, perfectly sealed off.
I walk the two blocks to the light rail, hands in my pockets, shoulders hunched. I check my phone again, but there’s nothing new.
Not from Darius. Not from Vincent.
I get on the train, sit by the window, and watch the world slide by.
I think about the eggs, about the way Vincent kissed my cheek, about the way he never said “I like you” or “I want to see you again,” but just assumed it, built it into the next move like a chess game.
