That actually sounds great. I haven’t had amazing food in a long time.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Soren:
Then it’s settled. You’re not staying there.
When can you come?
I’ll make it easy.
My brow furrows slightly. I still don’t remember telling him or general social media anything about where I’m staying—anything to make him sound this sure about how unhappy I am here—but he seems adamant that I need to leave.
And I mean, where’s the lie?
My pulse spikes.
It’s insane. I barely know Soren. We haven’t spoken in years. We never dated—we never even really hung out as friends. It was just that one night where we met.
But there’s a comfort in being connected with someone on socials for so long. It’s almost as if you get a sense of who they are, a safety in being able to observe them from behind screens. And seeing his very occasional posts has kept him in my mind.
I’ve always found him intriguing, anddefinitelygood-looking. He caught my attention from the first time I met him. Someone I’ve wanted to know more about.
We’ve just been in different places, in different phases.
Something about the certainty in his words—it’s settled—makes my body unclench for the first time in weeks. Like someone is taking the decision out of my shaking hands and saying,I’ve got you.
It should scare me. How easily I’m letting him take control. How good it feels to not have to decide anything for myself. But it doesn’t, and I hate how much I crave it.
I look around the living room. The couch. The bougie decor. The expensive minimalist furniture. The camera in the corner I try not to think about.
My throat tightens.
The truth rises up in me, sudden and undeniable.
If I stay here much longer, I’m going to disappear.
Not physically. But in every way that matters.
My fingers tremble as I type.
Me:
Soon, maybe.
When I hit send, it feels like I’ve done something dangerous. Something rebellious. Something I’m not supposed to do. Like I’ve just taken my first breath after being underwater.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the screen, chest heaving slightly.
“Get out,” I whisper.
And I don’t know if I mean the apartment.
Or myself.
CHAPTER 7
SOREN