Like I’d just committed to a version of myself I couldn’t undo.
I stared at the folder for a long moment.
Then I emailed it to myself.
Not to Mischa.
Not yet.
Just… closer.
A step I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t taken.
My phone buzzed.
A message.
From Dominic.
My chest tightened reflexively.
I opened it.
Dominic:
Are you free for five minutes tonight? No pressure. Just… you.
I stared at the screen, throat closing.
Five minutes.
I had five minutes.
I couldmakefive minutes.
I could also make five minutes disappear like I always did.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
And then, because I was apparently committed to being the worst kind of coward—capable, competent, and emotionally unavailable—I typed:
Me:
I’m in the middle of something for class. Can I call you tomorrow?
The lie wasn’t that I was busy.
The lie was that tomorrow would be better.
I hit send anyway.
Then I sat on my couch, staring at the photo on my laptop screen.
Her laughing.
Unposed.
Alive.
