Page 16 of Letting Go

I make coffee after she leaves. Robotically. Scoop, pour, press. The kitchen is too quiet. The kiss is still on my mouth, like she left something behind on purpose. Like maybe she knows, but I tell myself- no, she doesn’t. She can’t.

I drink my coffee black. No sugar. No cream. Just punishment.

By 8:30 I’m out the door, dress shoes biting at my heels, tie too tight like it’s strangling me for sins I haven’t even confessed to. The office is a glass-and-concrete block of dead dreams and high-speed Wi-Fi. People nod at me in the hallway like I’m still someone worth nodding to. I sit at my desk and pretend I care about Q3 reports and vendor negotiations and how we can rebrand our client-facing portal. I click, scroll, nod, say “let’s circle back on that” like a goddamn puppet with an MBA.

At lunch, McKenna corners me. She always finds me.

“You look like hell,” she says, sliding into the booth across from me. Tight blouse, bright lipstick, always a little too much perfume. I’ve never touched her. But she flirts like it’s a sport and she’s trying to win gold. I don't bite, but I don’t stop her either.

“I’ve been tired.”

She tilts her head. “Tired or in trouble?”

I shrug, push food around on my plate. Leni texted me- Made it. No service after this. I’ll talk to you Monday.

I stared at that message for too long.

No, I love you, I miss you.

Back at the office, I get into it with Ben from Accounts. Something about a missed deadline, a miscommunication. He talks to me like he’s my boss and I nearly lose it. Instead, I grab my coat, mutter something about a headache, and leave.

The drive home is quiet. Leni’s not texting, not calling, not checking in. I’m not used to her silence, even though she’s been absent for months.

At home, I change into sweatpants and crack open a beer. The couch groans under me like it’s tired too. I sip slowly. Think too much.

I love her. I do. But we’re not us lately. We haven’t been in a while. Everything’s off. Wrong timing, wrong words, too many silences, not enough touch. It’s like we’re on parallel tracks, close enough to see each other but never close enough to connect.

I scroll through my phone. Stare at one thread. No new messages.

I tell myself not to do it. I always do. Every single time, I promise this’ll be the last time. Two months, and I still haven’t learned.

But the loneliness wraps around me like a second skin. Heavy. Hot.

I type before I can stop myself.

You busy?

And hit send.

Exactly thirty minutes later, she walks in like she owns the place.

No knock. No hesitation. Just the sharp click of her heels on hardwood, echoing up the hallway, announcing her arrival like some twisted version of a homecoming.

She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say hi. Doesn’t smile. She just heads straight upstairs, purposeful, like she’sdone this a thousand times before. Like she lives here.

And I- I follow. Helpless.

She’s familiar in a way that feels dangerous now. She’s close to Leni. Too close. That should’ve been the line. Hell, that should’ve been the damn electric fence, the one thing that kept everything else in check. But I didn’t stop. And now, I can’t seem to.

In the beginning, it was innocent. Painfully innocent. Two lonely people orbiting the same woman, misunderstood in the exact same ways, drifting toward each other like debris in a storm. We talked too much. Laughed a little too long. Just enough to feel like maybe we weren’t drowning.

Then came Christmas. One kiss. One stupid, alcohol-softened, heat-of-the-moment kiss that tore the thread clean off the sweater. Before that night, she was someone I considered family. Like a sister. The kind of person you share secrets with- not bedsheets.

But Leni had gone on another business trip, and she didn’t know. She came over that day wanting to talk, wanting to apologize for the kiss. I shouldn’t have let her in. God, I shouldn’t have let her in.

But I did.

And when I kissed her, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was messy and sure and full of every wrong thing I’d been swallowing down for months. I took her upstairs, to the bed I share with my wife, andI made love to her. Not once. Not twice. We didn’t sleep until the sun came up. We didn’t want to.

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