“Anyway. You don’t have to respond. I wanted you to know that about me. I’m sure it’ll happen sometime, and it’s never about you. It’s my own hang-ups. I’ve always felt like one mistake from losing everything.
The corner of my mouth lifted before the message ended.
“Also, I want you to know that I’ve kissed a lot of people. Oh my god, why did I say that? No. Fuck. Ignore that. Jesus, I wanted to say…okay wow. Not sending this one.”
It stopped, and I was torn between laughing and throwing my phone. There was another audio that came through. I hit play immediately.
“Clearly I’m a dumbass and sent that last bit. What I wanted to say is that… Em, I cannot stop thinking about your mouth. The sounds you made. The way you tasted. How you clung to me and kissed me back. I’ve never in my entire life had a kiss like that. That is what I wanted to say. Okay, thanks, bye, have a great day.”
The audio cut off, and I realized I’d been holding my breath the entire time. No one had ever explained their feelings to me like that before. Not without asking me to fix their situation or reassure them or promise to not be upset with them, once again, always keeping everyone else’s peace over my own. He wasn’t dumping emotional responsibility in my lap—he was handing me context, like a gift he trusted me to hold.
I didn’t overthink it and instead hit record to send back to him. “Hi, thank you for being honest with me about that. And while I can’t say I’ve kissed a lot of men,” I cleared my throat, letting him know I was teasing, “I keep thinking about our kiss too. And I know I need to share my feelings with you too, and I will. I…never shut down. I always worry about everyone else and what they need, to the point that my own thoughts and needs get lost. I lose myself sometimes, and I hate it. I…want to be myself and not what everyone else wants me to be.” My voice cracked, and I shook my head, forcing myself to not cry. “Okay, I gotta go. Have a great practice, Noah.”
My phone buzzed again before I parked. Another audio message.
“Okay. Hi again.”
His voice sounded a little more sheepish this time, softer around the edges. I could picture his half smile, his dimple popping out.
“This one feels… slightly more terrifying to say out loud, but I promised I’d be honest. And I know my schedule makes it harder, so this is my way of trying.”
I shifted in my seat, one hand still on the wheel, the othertightening around my phone. There was something about the way he said that—terrifying—that made me listen with my whole body.
“Something that scares me in relationships is disappointing people. Like—really disappointing them. Not messing up once but realizing I can’t be what they hoped for long-term.”
I swallowed, my chest tightening.
“Football kind of trained me to believe that if I work harder, everything evens out. But people don’t work like that. You can’t grind your way into emotional security or trust or feelings.”
I closed my eyes, his words pressing into places that felt too familiar.
“I’m trying to unlearn that. Slowly. And so you know—if you ever need space, or quiet, or time to think, that doesn’t read as rejection to me. Just be honest with me. That’s all I want. Because damn, Em, you’re worth it. I want the real you too.”
There was a pause, long enough that I wondered if traffic had swallowed him again.
“If you need time to adjust…to us. Well, us trying this thing. I won’t panic. I’ll wait.”
My throat tightened painfully, the kind of ache that came from realizing something had been missing for a long time.
I rested my forehead against the wheel, blinking fast and breathing through it. Waiting was not something men had ever offered me before. Silence, in my experience, always came with consequences—coldness, punishment, wandering attention that made you feel replaceable. Hearing him sayI’ll waitso plainly, without conditions or expectations attached, cracked something open in my chest that I hadn’t realized I’d been protecting for years.
I parked and headed upstairs. My mind replayed his voice, the steadiness underneath the nerves, the way he wasn’t askingme to reassure him or soften the edges of his truth. He was just letting me see him.
The rest of the morning passed in fragments. I answered emails and adjusted seam lines, made notes I wasn’t sure I’d remember why I wrote later. I pretended not to see a notification from my dad sitting unopened like a threat in my inbox. I almost convinced myself the day was manageable until my phone rang around noon with a number I recognized too well.
Building management.
Five more weeks. Maybe six. Something about mold remediation and permits and insurance approvals that translated, roughly, tosorry about your life. I thanked them, hung up, and sat on the edge of the couch with my hands braced on either side of me.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t spiral. I felt tired in that deep, bone-level way that had followed me for the last year or two. I stared at my phone for a long moment before texting Noah. I never responded to his audio, and thinking about doing that had my stomach fluttering again.
Me:Just heard from building mgmt. Looks like at least five more weeks until it’s ready.
I set the phone down and forced myself to eat something instead of pacing.
Another audio buzzed in while I was halfway through a deeply unmotivated peanut butter sandwich. My stomach swooped, and I loved that he was sending me audios, like how Audrey and I usually communicated.
“Hi again. Third message, I swear I’ll stop after this.”
