Page 46 of The Cyrano Situation
"I'm well, but more importantly, how areyou? You've been quieter than usual." His voice carried genuine concern, which only intensified my guilt.
"Just swamped with work." The lie came easily, though technically it wasn't entirely false. I was indeed swamped, drowning, really, but not in work. In confusion. In the emotional aftermath of Hart's declaration.
"You sound... different. Is everything okay?"
I cleared my throat. "Of course. Just tired. The Henderson manuscript is proving more challenging than anticipated."
"I see." There was a pause. "Well, I was thinking perhaps we could meet this weekend? In person? I miss you."
The question hit me like a physical blow. Jules wanted to meet. Of course he did. Our relationship had been progressing steadily. We’d taken an important intimate step at our last date and now, I’m sure, it seemed like I was ghosting him. In a normal universe, we’d be inseparable.
But nothing felt normal anymore.
"I—yes, that would be... nice." The word 'nice' hung in the air, pathetically inadequate.
"Nice. That doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement," Jules said, his tone gentle but probing.
"I'm sorry. Nothing like that. It's just been a long day." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Can I get back to you on the details? I need to check my schedule."
Another pause. "Of course. Take your time."
The conversation limped along for another few minutes before we said goodbye. I sat in my silent apartment afterward, staring at the wall, not really seeing it. According to a study I once readin a psychology journal, humans make most important decisions subconsciously long before they're consciously aware of them. I wondered if my subconscious had already made a decision I hadn’t consciously acknowledged.
Friday brought more of the same. Hart's absence. Work. A stilted conversation with Jules that ended with him saying, "Cyril, I can't help feeling there's something you're not telling me."
I'd mumbled another excuse about work stress, knowing how hollow it sounded. Jules, ever perceptive, had simply said, "When you're ready to talk, I'll listen."
By that evening, I'd begun to wonder if Hart would ever return to the office. Perhaps he'd request a transfer to another department. Or worse, find another job entirely. The thought created a hollowness in my chest that no amount of literary analysis could fill.
After everyone else had left for the day, I found myself standing in his empty office, looking at the chaos he cultivated so carefully. His desk was a calculated disaster—promotional materials for upcoming releases scattered strategically, Post-it notes in his looping handwriting stuck to his computer monitor, a half-empty coffee mug with "PUBLICITY: BECAUSE SOMEONE HAS TO MAKE EDITORS LOOK GOOD" printed on it. A gift from me last Christmas.
I picked it up, running my finger along the rim. The coffee inside had evaporated, leaving a dark ring at the bottom—a perfect metaphor for his absence.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. For a moment, my heart leapt, hoping it might be Hart. Instead, it was Jules.
Jules:Thinking of you. Hope your day is improving.
The simple kindness made my stomach twist with guilt. Jules deserved better than this—better than me, halfway present in our conversations, distracted by thoughts of someone else.
Someone else. The phrase echoed in my mind. Hart wasn't justsomeone else. He was Hart. The coworker who had stealthily become my best friend. The person who knew exactly how I took my coffee. The person who could finish my sentences, who understood my obscure literary references, who made me laugh until my sides hurt.
The person I missed with an intensity that frightened me.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Hart's face when he'd said those three words. The vulnerability. The raw hope. And then the shuttering of his expression when I'd asked for time.
According to attachment theory, we form bonds based on patterns established in early childhood. My pattern had always been to retreat, analyze, overthink. Hart's had been to push forward, to take risks, to never give up. We were, in many ways, opposite sides of the same coin.
But what if—and this thought came to me around 3 AM—what if those differences weren't obstacles but complements? What if his boldness was exactly what my caution needed? What if my thoughtfulness was the ballast for his impulsivity?
Monday morning, I arrived at work early, my body tense with anticipation. Would today be the day Hart returned? Or would I receive another text explaining his continued absence?
I was reviewing a particularly tedious manuscript about maritime law when I heard it—a soft knock on my open door. I looked up, and there he was.
Hart.
He looked tired, shadows under his eyes matching my own. His usual immaculate style was slightly rumpled, as though he'd dressed in a hurry. But in his hands were two coffee cups from our favorite shop downstairs.
"Peace offering," he said, his voice slightly rough. "Black, one and a half packs of sugar."
