Page 20 of The Cyrano Situation

Chapter Fourteen - Ghosting

Cyril

I once edited a psychological thriller that posited humans need exactly seventy-two hours to process emotional trauma.

The author cited dubious neurological studies claiming our brains require that much time to rewire neural pathways after significant shock.

I'd dismissed it as pop psychology nonsense.

Yet here I was, exactly three days after Hart's confession, discovering there might be some truth to it after all.

The Thursday after Hart said those three impossible words, "I love you", I'd arrived at work with my nervous system in complete disarray.

My hands trembled as I unlocked my office door, expecting to see Hart's familiar silhouette lounging against the wall, coffee in hand, ready with some quip about my rumpled Oxford shirt or the shadows under my eyes.

Instead, I found only absence. And a text.

Not feeling well. Taking another sick day. H.

I stared at those nine words for approximately twelve minutes, analyzing each character as though it were ancient hieroglyphics. Hart was still avoiding me…avoiding us.

I placed my phone face-down on my desk, a physical manifestation of my inability to respond.

What could I possibly say? "Feel better" seemed inadequate given I'd essentially rejected him three days ago, or that's how he'd apparently taken it.

"We need to talk" felt too ominous. "I miss you already" wasn't fair until we'd talked in person.

So, I said nothing, which according to communication theorists, is itself a form of communication. Silence speaks volumes, as the cliché goes. My silence was speaking paragraphs, chapters, entire unwritten novels.

The day dragged with excruciating slowness.

I edited mechanically, returning a manuscript to an author with forty-seven comments about their improper use of semicolons.

I didn't have the emotional bandwidth to address their structural issues.

The semicolons were concrete, fixable. The rest—like my personal life—was too messy to contemplate.

By the afternoon, Hart's absence had become a physical ache, like phantom limb syndrome.

I kept turning to share observations with someone who wasn't there.

I'd reach for my phone to text him about the ridiculous email from marketing about "synergizing our vertical integration of content streams," only to remember the unanswered text from earlier in the week.

A new message arrived at 10:17 AM.

Still under the weather. Probably out tomorrow, too. Don't worry about the Douglas meeting—I've briefed Pryia.

This time, I responded.

We'll manage. Let me know if you need anything.

Nine words, eleven syllables. Safe, neutral, appropriate. Nothing like the storm brewing inside me.

That evening, Jules called. I stared at his name on my screen, a fresh wave of guilt washing over me. I answered on the fourth ring, forcing enthusiasm I didn't feel.

"Jules! Hi. How are you?"

"I'm well, but more importantly, how are you ? You've been quieter than usual." His voice carried genuine concern, which only intensified my guilt.

"Just swamped with work." The lie came easily, though technically it wasn't entirely false. I was indeed swamped, drowning, really, but not in work. In confusion. In the emotional aftermath of Hart's declaration.

"You sound... different. Is everything okay?"

I cleared my throat. "Of course. Just tired. The Henderson manuscript is proving more challenging than anticipated."

"I see." There was a pause. "Well, I was thinking perhaps we could meet this weekend? In person? I miss you."

The question hit me like a physical blow. Jules wanted to meet. Of course he did. Our relationship had been progressing steadily. We’d taken an important intimate step at our last date and now, I’m sure, it seemed like I was ghosting him. In a normal universe, we’d be inseparable.

But nothing felt normal anymore.

"I—yes, that would be... nice." The word 'nice' hung in the air, pathetically inadequate.

"Nice. That doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement," Jules said, his tone gentle but probing.

"I'm sorry. Nothing like that. It's just been a long day." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Can I get back to you on the details? I need to check my schedule."

Another pause. "Of course. Take your time."

The conversation limped along for another few minutes before we said goodbye.

I sat in my silent apartment afterward, staring at the wall, not really seeing it.

According to a study I once read in a psychology journal, humans make most important decisions subconsciously long before they're consciously aware of them. I wondered if my subconscious had already made a decision I hadn’t consciously acknowledged.

Friday brought more of the same. Hart's absence. Work. A stilted conversation with Jules that ended with him saying, "Cyril, I can't help feeling there's something you're not telling me."

I'd mumbled another excuse about work stress, knowing how hollow it sounded. Jules, ever perceptive, had simply said, "When you're ready to talk, I'll listen."

By that evening, I'd begun to wonder if Hart would ever return to the office. Perhaps he'd request a transfer to another department. Or worse, find another job entirely. The thought created a hollowness in my chest that no amount of literary analysis could fill.

After everyone else had left for the day, I found myself standing in his empty office, looking at the chaos he cultivated so carefully.

His desk was a calculated disaster—promotional materials for upcoming releases scattered strategically, Post-it notes in his looping handwriting stuck to his computer monitor, a half-empty coffee mug with "PUBLICITY: BECAUSE SOMEONE HAS TO MAKE EDITORS LOOK GOOD" printed on it. A gift from me last Christmas.

I picked it up, running my finger along the rim. The coffee inside had evaporated, leaving a dark ring at the bottom—a perfect metaphor for his absence.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. For a moment, my heart leapt, hoping it might be Hart. Instead, it was Jules.

Jules: Thinking of you. Hope your day is improving.

The simple kindness made my stomach twist with guilt. Jules deserved better than this—better than me, halfway present in our conversations, distracted by thoughts of someone else.

Someone else. The phrase echoed in my mind.

Hart wasn't just someone else . He was Hart.

The coworker who had stealthily become my best friend.

The person who knew exactly how I took my coffee.

The person who could finish my sentences, who understood my obscure literary references, who made me laugh until my sides hurt.

The person I missed with an intensity that frightened me.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Hart's face when he'd said those three words. The vulnerability. The raw hope. And then the shuttering of his expression when I'd asked for time.

According to attachment theory, we form bonds based on patterns established in early childhood. My pattern had always been to retreat, analyze, overthink. Hart's had been to push forward, to take risks, to never give up. We were, in many ways, opposite sides of the same coin.

But what if—and this thought came to me around 3 AM—what if those differences weren't obstacles but complements? What if his boldness was exactly what my caution needed? What if my thoughtfulness was the ballast for his impulsivity?

Monday morning, I arrived at work early, my body tense with anticipation. Would today be the day Hart returned? Or would I receive another text explaining his continued absence?

I was reviewing a particularly tedious manuscript about maritime law when I heard it—a soft knock on my open door. I looked up, and there he was.

Hart.

He looked tired, shadows under his eyes matching my own. His usual immaculate style was slightly rumpled, as though he'd dressed in a hurry. But in his hands were two coffee cups from our favorite shop downstairs.

"Peace offering," he said, his voice slightly rough. "Black, one and a half packs of sugar."

I stared at him, suddenly unable to form words, an unusual predicament for someone who traffics in them professionally.

"If you'd rather I leave—" he started.

"No," I said quickly, too quickly. "Please. Come in."

He hesitated, then stepped into my office, placing the coffee on my desk. He moved to close the door—an audience would have been unwelcome for whatever was about to transpire.

"You've were gone all week," I said, immediately regretting the accusatory tone.

"Yeah." Hart ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture I'd rarely seen from him. "I thought you might need space. And honestly, I needed some too."

I nodded, picking up the coffee cup more for something to do with my hands than any desire for caffeine. "Thank you for this."

"It's just coffee."

"No, it's not." I met his eyes then. "It's never been just coffee with you."

Something flickered across his face—hope, perhaps, but quickly tamped down. "Cyril, I don't want to make things awkward. I value our friendship too much. If you want to forget what I said—"

"I don't." The words came out before I could analyze them, edit them, perfect them. Raw, unfiltered truth. "I don't want to forget."

Hart went very still. "Okay," he said carefully. "What do you want?"

That was the question, wasn't it? What did I want? I'd spent a week turning it over in my mind, examining it from every angle like a difficult manuscript that refused to reveal its themes.

"I want to talk," I said finally. "Really talk. Not here, though."

He nodded. "After work? The coffee shop downstairs?"

"Yes." I gave him a tentative smile, which he returned. A small one, but genuine. "Five-thirty?"

"I'll be there." He lingered a moment longer, as though there was more he wanted to say, then turned to leave.

"Hart," I called after him. He paused in the doorway. "I'm glad you're back."