Page 24 of Love Letters from a Libra
“I should go. This child is one paint stroke away from redecorating my entire kitchen. Call your mother, and be careful with the computer boy,” Toni said after a moment.
“His name is Jules.”
“Whatever. Love you, girl.”
“Love you too.”
I hung up with a smile that faded quickly as I looked around my apartment. I needed to call my mother, respond to comments, pay bills, and finish the blog post. The list continued, with life’s regular demands reassuring themselves after the strange bubble of protection I felt in Jules’s apartment.
My phone buzzed with another notification. It was a voice memo from Jules. I stared at it for a long moment before pressing play and hitting speakerphone.
Jules:
Last night was … nice. I hope your day felt how it started, slow and sweet. No pressure, but I’d like to see you again soon. Just say when.
Twenty-three seconds was all it took, but something about his words and the slight pause before ‘nice,’ which was as if he had considered a stronger word but held back, made me replay it immediately. Then again, his voice felt like a continuation of the intimacy we shared last night, like somehow, he was still with me.
I should’ve responded, said something casual, but I didn’t. Instead, I set the phone down and continued my morning routine.
“No pressure,” he said, but pressure wasn’t always external. Sometimes, it built from within, like the growing certainty that I was falling into something I didn’t understand. Something that simultaneously felt like falling and flying.
That night, I opened a fresh page in my notebook, uncapped my pen, and wrote,Is it real this time or just another phase of the moon?
The question stared at me, both simple and more complex. I wrote down the word‘Jules’. His name conjured a feeling in my chest I wasn’t ready to name.
The way he makes me feel both seen and safe is a combination I rarely experience, but I’ve been wrong before about men who seem steady when they aren’t about connections that feel cosmic until they crash me back to earth. I’ve mistaken intensity for intimacy and attention for affection, too many times to count.
I set my pen down to reach for my tarot deck. I shuffled slowly, letting my thoughts settle into the rhythm of the cards sliding against each other.
“Show me what I need to know about Jules, what’s real, and what’s projected intention.” I shuffled the cards, and when it felt right, I cut the deck into three piles, then reassembled them before drawing a single card from the top. I placed it face down, blew out air, and then turned it over.
The tower reversed.
“Shit,” I muttered, staring at the image. The card meant a sudden change in revelation. In reverse, it spoke of avoiding the necessary destruction and delay in the change, living in denial of what must fall apart, a warning.
I should’ve expected this. The universe rarely told me what I wanted to hear, especially when I was already skating on thin ice emotionally.
“Don’t ruin this. Not yet,” I whispered to the cards or whatever forces sent it to me.
Notes App- Sometimes the people who listen the best are the ones who never got heard growing up.
I sworethe sheets on the right side of my bed held an impression of her body and a lingering scent in the fabric. Her laughter kept breaking through my concentration this morning. When we watched that documentary about deep-sea creatures, she compared an ugly-looking anglerfish to her ex and had me cracking up.
After my shower, I pulled on a pair of black sweatpants and a gray T-shirt and moved through my living room, adjustinga throw pillow she had moved and repositioning books she’d looked at on my end table.
My phone vibrated against the countertop, and the screen lit up with her name and a text.
Zanaa:
Still thinking about the documentary. The ocean is just as weird as space, right? Thanks again for letting me crash at your place.
A smile formed before I could stop it. I caught my reflection in the kitchen window; I looked like someone open and accessible. My smile dropped immediately, replaced by a tight and guarded expression.
It was too easy. It felt too easy to fall into her rhythm, to let her questions unravel parts of me. Questions I’d kept wound tight for decades. Vulnerability was just another word for target.
I turned the phone face down on the counter, a physical manifestation of the emotional distance I needed to maintain. I had planned to call her this morning. I actually rehearsed what I would say in the shower. Instead, I wiped down the already clean counters, unloaded the dishwasher, and dusted the triple monitors on my desk.
The phone remained face down, her text unanswered. In my head, I knew exactly how many steps it would take to reach the phone. I knew how many seconds it would take to write a response.
