Page 3 of The Cyrano Situation

Chapter Three - Distraction

Cyril

A s Hart noted, there are precisely fourteen steps from my bed to the bathroom. This is a fact I've verified every morning for four years, a constant in a world of variables. So when I woke on Thursday morning and counted fifteen steps, I knew something was fundamentally wrong.

I stood in the bathroom doorway, confused and slightly alarmed. Had I miscounted? Had I taken smaller steps than usual? Had the fundamental geography of my apartment somehow shifted overnight?

The logical part of my brain, which is to say, most of it, knew the answer was simple: I had been distracted. My routine, my carefully constructed routine, had been disrupted by thoughts of Hart Fielding and his ridiculous dating coach proposal.

I showered for four minutes and twelve seconds (twenty-seven seconds longer than usual), put on a navy cardigan instead of the gray one I'd laid out the night before, and nearly forgot my watch on the bedside table. By the time I left my apartment, I was running six minutes behind schedule.

The morning only deteriorated from there.

The line at my usual coffee cart was longer than normal, delaying me another four minutes.

A tourist stopped me to ask directions, costing me two more minutes.

And when I finally reached the office at 8:12 an entire twelve minutes late, I found Hart waiting by the elevator, two coffee cups in hand.

"Morning, sunshine!" he called, entirely too cheerful for the hour. "I brought reinforcements." He held out one of the cups. "Black coffee. No lavender, I promise."

I should have refused on principle. But I was twelve minutes behind schedule, hadn't had my usual coffee, and was feeling oddly off-kilter. I accepted the cup with a nod that I hoped conveyed both gratitude and disapproval.

"Rough morning?" Hart asked as we stepped into the elevator together.

"I miscounted my steps," I said, then immediately regretted it. Why was I telling him this?

But Hart just nodded as if this made perfect sense. "Mercury's in retrograde. Throws everything off."

"Mercury's orbital position has nothing to do with my morning routine."

"Maybe not directly." The elevator doors opened, and Hart held them with one hand. "But cosmic chaos trickles down, you know? Affects us all in weird ways."

I stepped out, shaking my head. "That's pseudoscientific nonsense."

"Probably," Hart agreed cheerfully. "But it's a more interesting explanation than 'I was distracted,' isn't it?"

Before I could respond, he was walking away, lifting his coffee cup in a small salute. "Have a good day, Cyril. Try not to count anything!"

I watched him go, irritation and something else—something warmer—mingling in my chest. Then I checked my watch (8:15), took a sip of the coffee (perfectly acceptable, though I'd never admit it), and headed to my office.

The morning passed in a blur of manuscripts and editorial notes. At 12:30, I unwrapped my sandwich (turkey on whole grain, lettuce, mustard) and opened my e-reader to continue "The Devotion of Suspect X." I'd just reached a pivotal scene when my office door swung open without a knock. Again.

Hart, of course. No one else had such a blatant disregard for basic office etiquette.

"Working lunch?" he asked, dropping into the chair across from me. Today's takeout container smelled of garlic and basil. "What are you reading?"

"Higashino," I said, marking my place. "And yes, I'm working."

"The Japanese mystery guy? Any good?"

I was surprised he remembered. "Very. It's a fascinating inversion of the traditional mystery structure."

Hart nodded, twirling pasta around his fork. "The way you described it, it sounds kind of like 'Columbo.'"

"I... yes, actually. Though considerably more complex."

"I used to watch reruns with my dad." He took a bite, then pointed his fork at me. "You know what else is like that? Relationships."

I set down my sandwich, already sensing where this was going. "Hart…"

"No, hear me out. In most relationships, the 'who' is established early on. It's the 'how' that's the mystery. How do two people with different lives, different habits, different ways of seeing the world make it work?" He leaned forward, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "That's the real puzzle."

"A puzzle I have no interest in solving," I said, picking up my sandwich again. "As I've made clear."

Hart studied me for a moment, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Can I ask you something? And you don't have to answer if you don't want to."

I sighed. "I suspect you'll ask regardless of my preference."

"Fair point." He set down his fork. "When was the last time you weren't lonely?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. "I'm not lonely."

"Everyone's lonely sometimes, Cyril. Even me."

"You?" I couldn't keep the skepticism from my voice. "You're the most social person I know."

"Being surrounded by people isn't the same as being understood by them." He said it simply, without self-pity. "But you didn't answer my question."

I looked down at my sandwich, suddenly not hungry. "I prefer solitude. It's not the same as loneliness."

"True," Hart conceded. "But they're not mutually exclusive either."

An uncomfortable silence fell between us. I took a sip of water, trying to formulate a response that would end this line of conversation without being overtly rude.

"Check your email," Hart said suddenly.

I blinked at the non sequitur. "What?"

"Your email. Check it. I sent you something."

With a sigh, I turned to my computer and opened my inbox. There, at the top, was an email from Hart with the subject line "Just a thought."

I clicked it open to find a link to a dating profile. LiteraryMinded36.

"What is this?" I asked, though I had a sinking feeling I already knew.

"Just look at it," Hart said, his expression a mixture of apprehension and hope.

I clicked the link, and my suspicions were confirmed. A dating profile. Not just any dating profile. One crafted to sound very much like... me.

The description was eerily accurate: a literary-minded introvert who appreciated structure and routine, who valued quality over quantity in all things, who preferred meaningful conversation to small talk.

There were references to books I'd mentioned to Hart, phrases that echoed sentiments I'd expressed.

"You created a dating profile for me," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Without my knowledge or consent."

Hart had the grace to look slightly abashed. "I know it sounds bad when you put it like that—"

"Because it is bad, Hart. It's a violation of my privacy and my explicitly stated wishes." I closed the browser window with more force than necessary. "Delete it. Now."

"Before you go nuclear, scroll down to the bottom of the email."

Against my better judgment, I did. There was a screenshot of a message exchange between LiteraryMinded36 and someone called Jules28.

Jules28: Your profile caught my attention immediately.

Not many people list Higashino as a favorite author, and your thoughts on unreliable narrators made me think of Ishiguro's 'A Pale View of Hills,' which I recently revisited.

I'm curious: what do you think makes a truly great ending to a novel?

The satisfying conclusion of all plot threads, or something more ambiguous that lingers in the mind?

LiteraryMinded36: The best endings are the ones that feel both inevitable and surprising.

Where all the pieces have been laid out, but you don't see the pattern until the final page.

I prefer endings that respect the reader's intelligence—no neat bows on complex problems, but enough resolution to feel the journey was worthwhile.

Ishiguro understands this beautifully; 'A Pale View of Hills' haunted me for weeks after I finished it.

Jules28: Exactly. The resonance of a great ending comes from what it doesn't say as much as what it does. It's like the final note of a piece of music that hangs in the air after the musicians have stopped playing.

That's what I look for in conversation, too—the unspoken understanding, the shared recognition of something meaningful. It's rare to find someone who appreciates that kind of connection.

Speaking of Higashino, have you read 'Under the Midnight Sun'? It's a departure from his usual puzzle-box mysteries, spanning decades with a slow-burning psychological intensity that's quite remarkable.

I stared at the screen, conflicted. The exchange was genuinely interesting. The kind of literary discussion I rarely had outside of work contexts. And Jules28 had mentioned "Under the Midnight Sun," a lesser-known Higashino novel that I'd been meaning to read.

"This person seems intelligent," I admitted reluctantly.

Hart's face lit up. "He is! Jules is a literature professor specializing in contemporary fiction. He’s sent three more messages since last night—all thoughtful, all about books you'd probably love."

"You've been impersonating me." I fixed him with a hard stare. "Responding as if you were me."

"Well, yes, technically. But I've been really careful to channel your voice. I've even been using ChatGPT to help craft responses that sound authentically you."

"ChatGPT." I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache forming. "Hart, this is insane. You're catfishing someone using an AI-generated version of me."

"Not catfishing, exactly. More like... Cyrano de Bergerac-ing." He leaned forward earnestly. "Look, I know it's unconventional—"

"It's deceptive."

"—but Jules is really interesting! And he seem to get you, or at least the version of you I've presented.

Which is pretty close to the real you, I think.

" He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture I'd noticed before.

"Just... read the rest of the exchanges before you make me delete everything. "