Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 17001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)
I throw cash on the table and shove through the crowd, pushing into the night.
My apartment. Maybe she went there. Maybe she’s there now, curled on my couch, waiting for me to explain.
When I get there, the place is quiet.
I stand in the middle of my living room, feeling like the walls are closing in. My mind spirals fast, latching onto everything I should’ve done. Should’ve told her about the trip. Should’ve mentioned the gift from my sister. Should’ve reassured her that nothing—nothing—would’ve kept me from telling her eventually.
I drop onto the couch, running both hands down my face, then pull my phone up again. Still no response. Her read receipts are off. Of course they are.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I do the only thing I can think of.
I Google her.
Her profile isn’t public, so I search for ‘Amelia Moore party planning.’ I scroll until I find the business listing, the address. It’s closed now, obviously, but it’s something.
I have to wait until morning.
I’ve never hated the hours between midnight and sunrise more in my life.
Every minute, I go back and forth, pacing the length of my living room. Should I explain the trip first? Tell her it was a gift my sister booked months ago and only sent the final confirmation today. It’s a one-way ticket because she wasn’t sure where I wanted to go or how long I planned to vacation. Should I lead with that?
Or do I tell Amelia that communication is supposed to be what we’re good at? That our entire relationship started from words—honest, messy, straightforward, vulnerable ones. And she could’ve asked, could’ve let me explain.
Or maybe I just need to beg. Fall to my knees if I have to. If begging is what it takes to keep her—if that’s the price of not losing the best damn thing I’ve ever had—then I’ll pay it.
Because I can’t take it if she walks away.
I don’t think I’ll survive that kind of heartbreak.
The sun’s up, and my head feels like it weighs a ton. Everything looks so bright and yellow, and they’re hurting my eyes.
This is probably because I haven’t slept all night. I tossed and turned, and I gave up trying at four AM.
I’ve been sitting on the curb outside her building for the last twenty minutes, but it’s only now—when I glance at the laundromat next door—that I start to seriously worry about getting arrested. The older woman behind the counter is giving me the kind of look I imagine one reserves for drunks who spent the whole night daring themselves how much they can drink before they pass out. If she has a panic button under that register, I’m probably five seconds away from hearing sirens.
I must look like hell. I feel like hell. I didn’t shower, and I’m still wearing the same damn polo shirt from the bar last night, and there’s a lipstick stain on the collar.
Goddammit. If my own sister sees me, she’d call the cops herself.
Then, I hear her before I see her—keys jingling, the soft rhythm of her shoes on the pavement. My head snaps up, and then I stop breathing entirely.
It’s her.
Amelia.
And she looks wrecked.
She looks perfect as always, but it’s her eyes that gut me—bloodshot and swollen like she cried through the night.
I stand up too fast and nearly trip over my own feet, reminiscent of the time I almost fell on our first date. Has it been just a few days ago? It could be a lifetime.
She pauses when she sees me. Her mouth parts, but no sound comes out. My chest tightens. God, I want to touch her, but I stay where I am. Because this is her sidewalk, her space, and I’ve already broken something I’m not sure I have the right to fix.
She unlocks the door without looking at me.
A soft click, a gentle push, and then, she steps aside so I can enter. Her fingers brush the edge of my sleeve as I pass her, and that barely-there contact feels louder than anything either of us has said so far.
Her space is small—just an office, a bathroom, and a glass door separating it from the street. But it’s cozy, colorful, full of little details that scream Amelia: a shelf of pastel-colored coffee mugs, a lip-shaped couch, dried flowers hanging from the ceiling, a pinboard bursting with swatches, Polaroids, and scribbled ideas, a crooked photo frame holding a picture of a cake that’s too pretty to eat.
It’s so her.
But she isn’t.
She moves quietly around the room, setting her bag down, turning on the lights, flipping her planner open even though we both know she’s not seeing any of it. She’s here, but not here. Her voice, when she finally speaks, is almost too low for me to hear. “You want coffee?”