Page 45 of The Cyrano Situation
"So I could have had all the information," I corrected. "So I could have made choices with my eyes fully open."
Hart studied me, something unreadable in his expression. "And what choice would you have made?"
It was the question at the heart of everything, and I didn't have an answer. Not yet. I looked at Hart. Really looked at him. The curve of his jaw, the warmth in his eyes despite his hurt, the hands that had comforted me through breakups and celebrated with me through successes. This was Hart. My Hart.
But what did that mean?
"I don't know," I said honestly. "But I'd like the chance to figure it out. If you'll give me time."
Hart was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the steady drumming of rain against the windows and our breathing in the small kitchen. Finally, he nodded.
"Time," he agreed softly. "I think we both could use some of that."
I reached out tentatively, taking his hand in mine. It was warm, familiar—the same hand that had high-fived me after successes, squeezed my shoulder in comfort, passed me coffee on early mornings. But now there was a new awareness humming beneath my skin at the contact, an electricity I couldn't dismiss as merely friendship.
"Whatever happens," I said, "you matter to me, Hart. That's not going to change."
His fingers tightened around mine briefly before he pulled away. "You matter to me, too." The smallest of smiles touched his lips. "Obviously."
That smile, uncertain but genuine, gave me hope that whatever came next, we might find our way through it together. I just needed time to untangle the complicated knot of emotions that had formed in my chest. To understand if what I felt forHart was friendship, or something deeper that I'd been too blind to see.
Chapter Fourteen - Ghosting
Cyril
Ionceeditedapsychologicalthriller that posited humans need exactly seventy-two hours to process emotional trauma. The author cited dubious neurological studies claiming our brains require that much time to rewire neural pathways after significant shock. I'd dismissed it as pop psychology nonsense.
Yet here I was, exactly three days after Hart's confession, discovering there might be some truth to it after all.
The Thursday after Hart said those three impossible words, "I love you", I'd arrived at work with my nervous system in complete disarray. My hands trembled as I unlocked my office door, expecting to see Hart's familiar silhouette lounging against the wall, coffee in hand, ready with some quip about my rumpled Oxford shirt or the shadows under my eyes.
Instead, I found only absence. And a text.
Not feeling well. Taking another sick day. H.
I stared at those nine words for approximately twelve minutes, analyzing each character as though it were ancient hieroglyphics. Hart was still avoiding me…avoiding us.
I placed my phone face-down on my desk, a physical manifestation of my inability to respond. What could I possibly say? "Feel better" seemed inadequate given I'd essentially rejected him three days ago, or that's how he'd apparently taken it. "We need to talk" felt too ominous. "I miss you already" wasn't fair until we'd talked in person.
So, I said nothing, which according to communication theorists, is itself a form of communication. Silence speaks volumes, as the cliché goes. My silence was speaking paragraphs, chapters, entire unwritten novels.
The day dragged with excruciating slowness. I edited mechanically, returning a manuscript to an author with forty-seven comments about their improper use of semicolons. I didn't have the emotional bandwidth to address their structural issues. The semicolons were concrete, fixable. The rest—like my personal life—was too messy to contemplate.
By the afternoon, Hart's absence had become a physical ache, like phantom limb syndrome. I kept turning to share observations with someone who wasn't there. I'd reach for my phone to text him about the ridiculous email from marketing about "synergizing our vertical integration of content streams," only to remember the unanswered text from earlier in the week.
A new message arrived at 10:17 AM.
Still under the weather. Probably out tomorrow, too. Don't worry about the Douglas meeting—I've briefed Pryia.
This time, I responded.
We'll manage. Let me know if you need anything.
Nine words, eleven syllables. Safe, neutral, appropriate. Nothing like the storm brewing inside me.
That evening, Jules called. I stared at his name on my screen, a fresh wave of guilt washing over me. I answered on the fourth ring, forcing enthusiasm I didn't feel.
"Jules! Hi. How are you?"
