Page 38 of The Cyrano Situation
When he finally thanks me and leaves for his afternoon editing meeting, I remain seated, staring at my half-eaten sandwich until Priya texts me to remind me about the marketing meeting scheduled in fifteen minutes. Only then do I dispose of my lunch, press my forehead against the cool wood of my desk and allow myself exactly sixty seconds of private agony before returning to work-Hart.
Sixty seconds isn't nearly enough.
Friday night finds me in my office well past nine, reviewing book tour proposals that don't require immediate attention. The office is dead quiet, everyone else having left hours ago. I should go home, but home means silence and thoughts, and tonight particularly, I can't bear either.
Because tonight, according to the nervous text Cyril sent earlier, he's having dinner at Jules' apartment. "He's cooking for me," the message read. "Says he has something special planned."
I didn't need a psychology degree to interpret that.
My phone buzzes on my desk. I glance at it, knowing I shouldn't look, knowing exactly what it will be.
Cyril:At Jules' place. Everything's perfect. I think it's happening tonight.
I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. What would a good friend say? What would someone who wasn't silently in love with him say?
Me:Just be yourself. That's more than enough.
After sending it, I add:
Me:And remember what we talked about. Communication.
Cyril:Thanks, Hart. You're the best.
I set the phone down and close my eyes. The best. God! I'm getting sick of that phrase. The best at what? The best friend who gives sex advice to the man he loves about another man? The best at pretending this isn't killing me by degrees? The best at lying to said best friend?
I can't stay in this office any longer.
Outside, the early autumn air has a crisp edge that normally I'd find invigorating. Now, it just feels like another reminder of change, of seasons shifting while I remain frozen in place. I walk without direction, away from campus, away from my apartment, just away.
The streets downtown are alive with Friday night energy. Couples and groups are moving between restaurants and bars, laughing, touching, living their uncomplicated lives. I envy their simple joy, their ability to exist in the moment without the constant undercurrent of longing.
I find myself approaching the arts district near the university where Jules teaches. I should turn around. Nothing good can come from being in this neighborhood tonight. Yet I continue walking, drawn by some masochistic impulse I can't resist.
A wine bar catches my eye, the warm lighting spilling onto the sidewalk, the soft murmur of conversation audible from outside. I could go in, have a glass of something robust and distracting. Pretend to be someone without a hollow ache in his chest.
As I approach the entrance, movement across the street catches my attention. Two figures emerge from a narrow alleyway between buildings. Even in the dim evening light, I recognize Cyril immediately—his lanky frame, the way he gestures when he speaks. Beside him walks a slightly shorter man with dark, wavy hair and glasses.
Jules.
I should leave. I should turn and walk away quickly before they see me. Instead, I step back into the shadow of a nearby doorway, unable to tear my eyes away from them.
They're laughing about something, shoulders brushing as they walk, hands intertwined. Jules says something I can't hear, and Cyril throws his head back in genuine delight. I've never made him laugh like that.
They pause beneath a streetlight. Jules reaches up to touch Cyril's face, a tender gesture that makes my chest constrict. Then, with the casual confidence of someone who knows their touch is welcome, he pulls Cyril down into a kiss.
It's not a brief kiss. It's not a public-appropriate peck. It's the kind of kiss that transforms the participants into the only two people in the universe. Cyril's hands move to Jules' waist, drawing him closer. Jules' fingers thread through Cyril's hair.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I was transfixed by this moment that confirmed everything I had feared and denied. The physical embodiment of what I had lost without ever having.
When they finally separated, they remained close, foreheads touching, sharing words meant only for each other. Jules took Cyril's hand, and they continued down the street, walking toward what I assumed was Jules' apartment and the evening they had planned.
I had imagined heartbreak before. I had pictured dramatic confrontations, tearful declarations, the cinematic version oflove lost. But this… this quiet devastation, this muted collapse of hope—this was true heartbreak.
No soundtrack, no audience, just me standing alone in the dark while the person I love walks away with someone else.
I waited until they were out of sight before I stepped back onto the sidewalk. The wine bar no longer appealed to me. Nothing did.
I turned and began the long walk back to my apartment, each step an exercise in continuing to exist when part of me has shattered.
