Page 18 of The Cyrano Situation

While the shower ran, I moved through his apartment, picking up discarded clothes and empty containers.

I found a trash bag under the sink and filled it with takeout boxes and crumpled tissues.

The dishes in the sink were crusted with food, so I filled the basin with hot water and dish soap, letting them soak.

Small acts of order in the chaos, but it was something I could do when I felt so helpless about fixing whatever was really wrong.

In the kitchen, I opened his refrigerator, finding it nearly empty except for condiments, a half-empty carton of milk, and some dubious-looking leftovers.

The freezer yielded more options—including, thankfully, a container of what looked like homemade soup.

I checked the label: "Chicken & Wild Rice – Mom's Recipe" written in Hart's neat handwriting. Perfect.

By the time the shower shut off, I had the soup heating on the stove, the worst of the mess cleared away, and fresh air circulating through the apartment from a cracked window.

I heard Hart moving from the bathroom to his bedroom, then emerging a few minutes later in the clean clothes I'd left for him.

He paused in the kitchen doorway, taking in the transformation. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the edges the way it always did when wet, but his eyes looked clearer, more present.

"You didn't have to do all this," he said quietly, but there was a note of gratitude beneath the words.

I stirred the soup, the rich aroma filling the kitchen. "I know. But sometimes we all need someone to step in when things get overwhelming."

Hart moved to the small kitchen table, lowering himself into a chair. "The soup smells good."

"Your mom's recipe, apparently." I found a clean bowl in the cabinet and ladled a generous portion. "When was the last time you ate something that wasn't delivered in a paper bag?"

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Thursday, maybe?"

I set the bowl in front of him, along with a spoon and a glass of water. "Eat. Then we'll talk."

He looked like he might protest, but his stomach chose that moment to make its feelings known loud and clear. His cheeks pinked and he picked up the spoon changing his mind. He took a small spoonful, then another. I sat across from him, watching as some color returned to his face with each bite.

"This is weird," he said after a few minutes, gesturing vaguely with his spoon. "You taking care of me."

"Why? You'd do the same for me."

"Yeah, but..." He trailed off, staring into his bowl. "It's different."

I waited, giving him space to continue if he wanted to. When he didn't, I pushed gently again. "Hart, something's clearly wrong. I've never seen you like this. If it's not about me, fine. But let me help. Whatever it is. That’s what friends do.”

He set down his spoon, the clink of metal against ceramic loud in the quiet kitchen.

Outside, rain pattered against the window, a soft percussion accompanying the heaviness of the moment.

Hart's fingers traced the edge of the bowl, his eyes fixed on the motion as if it held all the answers in the universe.

"Friends," he repeated, the word sounding strangely bitter on his lips. "Right."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Hart turned away, staring out the window at the rainy cityscape. The silence stretched between us, heavy with things unsaid. I was about to press him further when he spoke again, so quietly I almost didn't hear him.

"How's Jules?"

The question caught me off guard. "Jules? He's... fine, I guess. I've barely talked to him since Friday. He’s at a conference.”

"But things are going well with him, aren't they?" There was something in his voice I couldn't quite identify. "I saw you kissing him, you know."

I frowned, trying to follow his train of thought. "I thought that was you I saw. But what does that have to do with you ignoring me all weekend?"

Hart let out a laugh that contained no humor. "God, Cyril. For someone so smart, you can be incredibly dense sometimes."

My confusion was rapidly turning to irritation. "If you have something to say, Hart, just say it."

He turned to face me then, and the raw emotion in his eyes took my breath away. "Fine. You want me to say it? I can't do this anymore. I can't keep pretending."

"Pretending what?"

"That I'm okay with watching you fall for someone else!" The words burst out of him, loud in the quiet apartment. "That I'm okay being your... your dating coach, or whatever the hell I've been these past few months."

I stared at him, struggling to make sense of what he was saying. "I don't understand—"

"Of course you don't." Hart ran both hands through his hair, his frustration palpable. "You've been so focused on Jules that you haven't noticed anything else. Not a single thing."

"Noticed what?"

He looked at me then, really looked at me, his eyes filled with a pain that made my chest ache in response.

"Me, Cyril. You haven't noticed me."

The words hung in the air between us, changing everything. I felt like the ground had shifted beneath my feet, leaving me unsteady and disoriented.

"What are you saying?" My voice came out as barely more than a whisper.