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I shut all my programs down and slip my work laptop into my tote bag before saying goodbye to everyone and heading out of the office.

The streets are filled with every other commuter making their nightly trek back home. It’s a weaving game, slipping in between the bodies into little pockets of space so you don’t get bogged down with the dawdlers.

The train is just as packed, and some tourist guy doesn’t bother to hold on and goes tumbling into a bunch of us, causing a chain reaction of jostling bodies. I’m reminded of the other day when Cullen protected me, using himself as a shield against the other inconsiderate passengers.

By the time I see our apartment building, I want to weep.

I input the code on the keypad and heave the metal frame door wide open.

Packages are piled up along the left-hand wall, and I do a quick scan, picking out two bubble mailers that are addressed to Hannah. Just as I’m about to head upstairs, I snag on a slightly larger box that’s been pushed a bit farther down the hall.

I give the label a quick glance before dismissing it. Only to halt, walk back two steps, and stare at it again.

Odd.

It’s addressed to me.

I readjust my tote before stacking Hannah’s mailers on top of the box and carrying them up the four flights of stairs.

I swear to myself that one day I will be able to afford a place with an elevator. I already spent all day walking around the city to get places. I don’t need the extra workout of a climb at the end of it all. I would rather accept the convenience and laziness of modern technology.

When I get inside the apartment, I toss all the packages on the couch before dropping my ass on the cushion next to them. My body is at war with itself, stuck between wanting to fall asleep and demanding to eat dinner.

My phone chimes in my bag, and I dig it out to see a text from Hannah letting me know she’ll be home soon and asking if I can turn on her curling iron. She’s probably headed out on a date—it is Friday night.

Despite living together, Hannah and I don’t see each other that often. The company she works for has bonkers hours—she isnormally leaving when I wake up and coming home when I am finishing dinner. She also always has some sort of date Friday and Saturday nights, so the only days we really have together are her “Recharge Sundays.”

Below Hannah’s text chain sits a chain of unread text messages.

I’ve yet to cave and click on Cullen’s texts, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t wasted hours staring at his name and the teeny message preview below it.

I think about him all the time, and it doesn’t help that I see him every single day. The threads of my resolve are turning gossamer. I am waking up excited at the idea of him waiting outside, which is totally counterproductive to my plan. And yet, I can’t stop myself. I’d considered waking up at the ass-crack of dawn like Hannah and heading into the office early to avoid him, but I failed every time.

My rational brain is losing the war to my dreamy heart.

After the incident with Celine, I did my own internet deep dive into him. I told myself it would help me realize that we aren’t a good match, but it had turned into self-inflicted torture.

I looked through articles from the early days of Delute Designs to see if there was any mention of Cullen or a husband. I came across a couple of photos of the two of them, and it just made it more confusing. There were two I found of them in college as part of some business fraternity, Cullen smiling at her and seeming so in love. But then there was one of Celine winning her New Business of the Year award, and he was off to the side, stiff and stoic.

I want to know why things ended.

How did they go from high school sweethearts to two humans who can’t even breathe the same air without getting offended?

Was it something Cullen did? Did I dodge a bullet there because he is a serial cheater or something? Or was it Celine?Did she cause the marriage to break apart, and I’ve just rubbed salt in the wound of a man who is just trying to find love again?

My head pounds.

Work is already stressful; my personal life isn’t supposed to be as well. The benefit of coming home is to decompress, but I’ve made the mistake of intermingling the two and am now reaping the repercussions of trying to untangle them.

I groan, tipping onto my side across the couch cushion and narrowly avoiding poking my eye out with the corner of the box I forgot was next to me.

What the hell is in this thing, anyway?

Determined to do literally anything to take my mind off this grave I dug myself and am struggling to fill back up, I grab the Stanley knife from the kitchen and start cutting open the brown package.

Did I pre-order something and forget about it?

Unlikely. I keep track of all my purchases to the cent.