I take a sip of tea, burn my tongue slightly, and decide I’m not doing this in fragments.
Me: It’s complicated. I’ll explain later.
Priya: Define “later.”
Before I can respond, there’s a knock at my door. I glance at the time then at my phone, because the universe has a sense of timing that borders on cruel.
Jo texts again.
Jo: Open the door.
I do, because resisting Jo is pointless.
She steps inside, takes one look at my face, and drops her bag on the floor without comment. She’s already kicking off her shoes, already moving toward the kitchen like this was always the plan.
“Tea,” she says. “Good. Sit.”
I obey, which should tell me something about the last few weeks, and she settles beside me with her own mug, knees pulled up, posture sharp in that way she gets when she’s trying not to panic on my behalf.
“Okay,” she says. “Start talking.”
So I do. Not everything. Not details. But enough. I tell her about the intensity, the contract, the way it feels both chosen and controlled, the note, the pink envelope. I don’t dramatize it, because I don’t have the energy, and I don’t downplay it either, because that feels dishonest.
She listens without interrupting, which is new and unsettling.
When I finish, there’s a moment of silence that stretches too long, and my stomach tightens because I know what comes next.
“Lila,” she says carefully, “I need to ask you something, and I need you not to get mad.”
I shrug, because I’m already braced.
“What if he’s not serious about you?”
The question lands harder than I expect, not because I haven’t thought it but because hearing it out loud gives it weight.
“What if,” she continues, still calm, “he’s intense because that’s how he hooks people, and what if this is just another version of the same pattern you’ve already lived through, only dressed up better?”
I open my mouth to argue. I close it again.
She presses on gently, which somehow makes it worse. “I’m not saying he’s your ex. I’m saying powerful men don’t usually change the rules for one woman, and I don’t want you convincing yourself that attention equals commitment.”
My chest tightens. My tea goes untouched.
“He asked for consent,” I say, too fast. “He didn’t push me into anything. He checked in. He listened. He does every time.”
“I know,” she says. “And that matters. But so did the beginning with your ex, remember? He didn’t start awful. He started attentive.”
That’s the part that cracks something.
Because she’s right, and I hate that she’s right, and I hate that part of me already knew it.
“What if you’re just…a phase?” she asks quietly. “What if this is fun and intense and validating, and then he gets bored or distracted, and you’re left trying to explain to yourself why it felt real when it wasn’t?”
I stare at my hands, at the faint tremor I didn’t notice until now.
“I don’t think he’s lying,” I say.
“I’m not saying he is,” she replies. “I’m saying he might not be telling the whole story, and neither are you.”
