Page 27 of Lovesick

It still took him a moment before he stepped back, and when he finally did, before the doors slid closed, I said, “Goodbye, Dean.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just stood there, holding the letter that finally said what I couldn’t keep inside anymore.

Your decision led to Emilia and Dean not ending up together.

If you want to explore the other outcomes and see how the story could have unfolded differently, go back to Chapter 7 and make a different choice.

10

EMILIA

Two days later, I did go back to work.

I walked into the building with my head high, heart steady, heels clicking against the polished tile. Each step felt heavier than the last, but not because I doubted myself. I knew exactly what I was walking into, and I was ready.

The elevator ride up felt longer than ever before, but the second I reached the office floor, I felt a sense of relief. I had made it. I came back, even if it was the hardest thing I had ever done.

I was proud of myself.

Leann smiled at me as I passed the front desk, but I didn’t stop to talk. I simply smiled back and headed straight to my office, needing a moment to myself before I picked up on all the work I missed. Dean knew I was back. I sent an email to Leann, and she forwarded it to him. He was informed, but I didn’t expect him to welcome me back. I didn’t want to see him just yet.

And, to my luck, Dean was busy all day, making it easy for me to just answer emails and calls without having to face or talk to him.

Two more days passed, and it became harder for me to stay out of his way. The first time he saw me back in the office, he looked hurt. Like I had been the one to rip out his heart. Like it had been me who used him for sex. Then, he looked worried, but I didn’t let that bother me.

I tolerated his presence. I kept to myself, focused on my work, kept conversations short, professional. Detached. He tried a few times, offering a coffee, pausing too long in my presence. I responded with polite nods and cool distance.

I didn’t lash out. I didn’t ignore him entirely. But I made it clear: the version of me he once knew wasn’t here anymore. The woman who waited for him to love her back had left. The one who returned knew exactly what she deserved.

I started coming in a little earlier. Left a little later. I wasn’t avoiding him, but I needed the quiet. The solitude. I needed to remember who I was before him.

Some meetings were worse than others. Sitting next to him, feeling his gaze linger on the side of my face while he pretended not to be looking. It started to be exhausting. But I got through them. One task at a time. One breath after another. I found little victories in doing my job well, in proving to myself that I could still thrive, even with him around.

He seemed to be walking around with something clutched inside his chest. Words unsaid, emotions held back. And yet, he never forced a moment. He never pulled me into corners or begged for my time.

Until Friday.

I’d stayed late again, finishing up an important email that had to go out before the weekend. Most of the office had emptied, but he was still there. Knowing I would be too.

The knock on my door was soft, and he opened it without waiting for my permission. I didn’t argue though. Didn’t have the strength to.

I watched him standing there, his beard longer than usual. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and I hated how his rougher looks shook something in me. I tried my best to ignore it and raised a brow, waiting for him to say something.

“Can we talk?” he asked, voice low.

I didn’t say anything at first. I just looked at him. And for the first time in a long time, I saw regret written plainly across his face. Not just sadness. Not desperation. Regret.

“I just…wanted to apologize again,” he continued. “I know I said it already. I know I came to your door and said a lot of things. But I need you to know...I meant every word. And I need you to hear it when you’re ready. Not just when I’m desperate.”

I should’ve asked him to leave. Part of me wanted to.

But I didn’t.

Maybe it was the quiet in his voice. Or the look in his eyes that told me this wasn’t about trying to get me back. It was about owning what he did.

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