“What?” I ask.
“I was falling for you,” he repeats. “You were—are—smart and beautiful and fucking hilarious, and in retrospect I started letting myself feel way too much way too quickly, which is never good but especially not when I’ve had myself on strict emotional probation for years. So I was in too deep and when I saw those posts I got whiplash. I was mean, and I’m ashamed of myself.”
I’m trying not to get stuck on “I was falling for you.”
I’m trying not to lose myself in wondering if the past tense is good or bad.
“Is this how you are?” I ask him. “You lash out at people when you’re the slightest bit hurt?”
The question seems to throw him.
“I don’t know how I am,” he finally says. “Not in relationships. I always used to be easygoing, a little numbed out. I didn’t feelanythingvery deeply. I’m still navigating what it’s like to be conscious of my own emotions. And it was irresponsible to let myself get so tangled up with you. I know I’m not there yet. It’s why I don’t date. I let my own bullshit burn you, and I feel absolutely dreadful about it.”
I believe him. He looks like he does feel dreadful.
The question is whether I forgive him.
I’ve experienced too many emotions in the past eight days and I’m spent.
“I don’t know what to say, Felix,” I admit.
“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”
“I accept the apology, I guess.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“But beyond that…” I shrug.
“I get it,” he says. “You don’t have to forgive me. I just need you to know that I was wrong and I know it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks for telling me.”
We’re both silent.
It’s excruciating. Part of me wants to decrease the awkardness by offering him some reassurance that everything is okay now. Or the opposite, to say I can’t get over it and will continue being hostile.
But I simply don’t knowhowI feel.
A question pops into my mind.
“Hey, how did you even see Lauren’s posts in the first place?” I ask. “Did you look her up?”
“No. Someone DM’d them to me,” he says.
“Who?”
He furrows his brow. “Yeah, I don’t know, actually. The account was called FYIFelix or something.”
I gape at him. “Wait. Some random burner account sent it?”
“I guess?”
“And that didn’t set off red flags?”
“It should have. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’m really sorry, Hope.”
“But you must havesomeidea of who would send that to you.”
