Page 39 of The Cyrano Situation
I won't get over this.
That was the realization that settles over me as I walk through the night.
The polite fiction I've been telling myself—that this is a crush, an infatuation, something that will fade with time—disintegrates in the face of what I just witnessed.
The rational part of my brain argues that no feeling lasts forever, that even grief evolves. But the man who watched Cyril kiss Jules beneath that streetlight knows better. Some loves don't diminish; they just become incorporated into your being, like a scar that changes how you move through the world.
I reach my apartment building and climb the stairs slowly, each step heavier than the last. Inside, I don't bother turning on the lights. The darkness suits my mood, and I know the layout well enough to navigate by memory and the faint glow from street lamps outside.
My phone buzzes again. I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't.
Cyril:Everything's perfect. Thanks for the advice. See you Monday.
I don't respond. What could I possibly say?
I sink onto my couch, still wearing my coat, and stare at nothing. Somewhere across town, Cyril is with Jules. They're touching, laughing, connecting in ways I've only imagined. AndJules—talented, charming, French Jules—is giving Cyril exactly what he deserves: passion, attention, affection freely expressed.
While I sit here, having never said a word about my feelings. Having played the supportive friend while dying inside. Having given advice that has now led to their consummation.
I was Cyrano without the poetry, the sword skills, or the tragic nobility.
Just a man who couldn't find the courage to speak, watching from the shadows as someone else claims the happiness I wanted.
Tomorrow, I'll get up. I'll shower. I'll plan our new author’s book tour. I'll continue being work-Hart, functioning with professional competence while real-Hart carries this quiet devastation. I'll answer Cyril's texts and listen to his stories and offer advice when asked, because that's what friends do.
And maybe someday, this will hurt less. Maybe someday, seeing them together won't feel like drowning on dry land. Maybe someday, I'll meet someone who makes me forget what it felt like to watch Cyril walk away snuggled up with Jules.
But tonight, in the darkness of my apartment, I acknowledge the truth I've been avoiding: I won't get over this. Not really. Not completely.
And somehow, I'll have to learn to live with that.
Chapter Twelve - The Confession
Cyril
Thescreenofmyphone glowed accusingly in the darkness of my bedroom. 11:42 PM. No response from Hart. Again.
I'd sent him three texts and called twice since Friday night. Nothing but silence in return. The last message I'd sent him earlier this evening sat unanswered beneath a string of my increasingly concerned texts:
Me:Hart, is everything okay? You're starting to worry me.
I stared at the message, watching the little "Delivered" notification mocking me. No typing bubbles appeared. No indication he'd even read it.
This wasn't like Hart. In the two years we'd known each other, he'd never gone more than a few hours without responding, even during the busiest publicity campaigns. Hart was reliable—it was one of the things I appreciated most about him. He always showed up, always answered, always had my back.
Until now.
I scrolled back through our text history, searching for any hint that I'd done something to upset him. Our last exchange had been Friday night when we were finalizing details for my date with Jules and the possible aftermath. Everything had seemed normal then. Hart had even sent one of his typical jokes about my "hopeless romantic endeavors," as he called them.
But Friday night's date had gone well—at least I thought it had. Jules had been charming and engaging throughout our conversation, discussing his favorite contemporary literature with genuine passion. The wine bar had been cozy and intimate, with soft lighting that made his eyes sparkle when he laughed. When we'd kissed outside afterward, I’d melted into him completely forgetting about my normal aversion to PDA. The wine might have helped with that.
When we’d finally come up for air, I thought I'd caught Hart in my peripheral vision, watching us from across the street. It was strange but I hadn't mentioned it to Jules. I hadn’t wanted to break the spell of the evening, but I couldn't get the unquiet of possibly seeing him there from niggling in the back of my mind.
What had he been doing there? Had it even been him?
I tossed my phone onto the nightstand and rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. What had happened? Had I missed something? The analytical part of my brain, the part that made me good at my job, ran through the events of Friday night again, searching for clues.
The worry that had been building all weekend settled heavier in my chest. This silence wasn't just unusual—it felt deliberate. Hart was ghosting me, and I had no idea why.
