I should tell him, but I don’t.
Because I like the version of Amy I get to be with him. Not the fragile one. Not the one people tiptoe around. Not the one with circles under her eyes and compression gloves on her hands.
I don’t want to hear that edge in his voice, the one laced with caution. I don’t want to see it in his eyes if we ever meet in person. That quiet worry, the hesitation.
The way people who love me look when I’ve done a little too much. When my smile doesn’t quite reach. They don’t mean to. I know they love me, but they always see thepain, even when I’m trying to show them the joy.
And I don’t want that with him, not yet, and maybe not ever.
“It’s nothing. I’m just tired and a little cranky. Probably the weather. Autumn’s almost here.”
“Is it? I don’t know why, but I pegged you as a fall lover. Was I wrong?”
I can’t help but smile. No, of course he’s not wrong. That man can read me through my words on a screen.
“I am an autumn girl. But the rain’s no good for my old bones. You’ll get it when you’re my age,” I add, teasing, trying to keep things light before he pries a little too deep, and I cave.
“Alright, Fangirl. You’re three years older, not fifteen.”
“Yes, but in man-years? That’s at least a decade’s head start,” I shoot back.
A voice note pings.
Just a laugh. It’s deep, unfiltered, and warm.
And that laugh does things to my heart and stomach it has absolutely no business doing.
For a second, I feel like a teenager again, giggling in braces when Thomas Gerdin from seventh grade winked at me.
Or at least that’s what Ithought, until I found out he was coming down with a raging case of pink eye.
“Ah, well, you’re lucky I’m into older women.”
And there it is, my heart doing the flamenco again. Maybe it’s the meds?
No, Amy Sinclair. You know it’s not the tablets. It’s the smooth-talking man on the other end of the line.
“What’s up though, Fangirl? You can talk to me.”
I open my mouth… then close it again. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to lie, but I’m not sure I’m ready to tell him the truth either.
“Ah, don’t worry too much. Just a pity party for one. Work sucked yesterday. Audits, you know. And I guess… I just wonder sometimes if this is it. If this is all there is.”
“No. There’s more. Therehasto be.”
The way he says it. I don’t need to know his voice that well to hear what’s behind it.
Longing.The kind I recognize because I carry it too.
The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of quiet that wraps around you like a blanket, not a wall.
He doesn’t try to fix anything, doesn’t launch into a pep talk or offer shallow reassurances.
“You ever think,” I murmur, “that maybe we’re all just one wrong decision away from an entirely different life?”
“All the time.”
A pause. Then, “But maybe some wrong decisions lead to the right people.”
