Page 112 of Oliver

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And wasn’t that the irony? Oliver Beck—the man who once mapped my soul like constellations, who made me feel unforgettable—and now I was just another ping on his booking app.

I hated how much it hurt.

But that hurt was proof. Proof that my heart still bled for him. Beat for him.

Tomorrow, 8:30 AM, introductory date with Oliver, where it all began—Café Lucid.

The booking form stared back at me, waiting for me to decide if I wanted to add special requests.

I stared at the empty box, the cursor pulsing like a heartbeat.

And before I could stop myself—"Please.”

Tears blurred my vision, blurring the screen, the keyboard, everything but the awful, fragile hope clawing up my throat.

Hope that maybe, somehow, this would reach him.

That he'd see it and understand.

That it would be enough to pull him out of the darkness he’d given in to.

The cursor hovered over the "Submit" button.

And then?—

Panic.

Doubt.

Shame.

What if it wasn’t enough?

What if it made things worse?

What if we were already broken beyond repair?

I blinked furiously, dragging my hand back to the keyboard.

I deleted the note.

Letter by letter, I erased every desperate syllable until the box was empty again.

No clues.

No begging.

No promises.

Just a stranger booking a stranger for coffee.

I clicked the "Book Now" button before I could change my mind.

The confirmation screen appeared, along with an ironically cheerful message thanking me for choosing Foxy's for my companionship needs. I closed the tab, my heart racing, wondering if choosing such a significant landmark in our relationship would tip him off it was me, deter him, or worse—both.

He’d figure out it was me and decline.

And even if he accepted, I didn’t know what I’d say when I saw him.

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