Colt: Got stuck fixing my buddy’s sink for two hours. I’m basically a plumber now.
Elena: Oh good, finally found a respectable career.
Colt: Wow. I see how it is.
And then nothing for a while.
It’s quiet texting…but charged.
Shoot. Over the line? It was a joke.
This is why I hate texting.
Like we’re both pretending to be busy, pretending not to think about Tuesday, pretending we didn’t almost lose our minds against a brick wall.
The weekend goes by, and then Sunday evening, around ten, I’m lying on my couch with a blanket and a reality dating show I’m not remotely paying attention to when his name lights up my screen again.
Colt: Long weekend. You doing okay?
I type.
Elena: Yeah. Just relaxing. You?
A moment passes.
Colt: Trying not to count down the hours.
I stare at that message long enough for my tea to go cold.
I don’t answer.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because if I do…I’ll say something I’m not ready to admit out loud.
Instead, I mute the TV, curl deeper under the blanket, and let my brain spin into dangerous territory.
My fingers find my phone again.
Hover.
Hover…
And then I open Safari.
A blank search bar stares back at me.
I hesitate.
Then type the first word, then delete it.
Type something else, and delete that too.
“What am I doing…” I breathe, already knowing exactly what I’m doing.
Finally, I type:
“Is it crazy to date someone 12 years younger?”
