Page 7 of The Cyrano Situation

Chapter Five - Spiraling

Hart

I stared at my phone as it buzzed with Cyril's incoming call, his contact photo, a candid I'd snapped of him laughing at last year's company holiday party, flashing on screen.

I knew before answering what this was about.

The man had been floating on air for the past three days since establishing regular text communication with Jules. Too good to last, apparently.

"Let me guess," I said instead of hello. "You’re still spiraling about meeting Jules for coffee.”

"I am not spiraling," Cyril insisted, his voice pitched higher than normal. "I am having a completely reasonable reaction to a deeply terrifying proposition."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, sinking deeper into my couch. "Coffee. He suggested coffee, Cyril. Not a kidnapping."

"Coffee leads to conversation. Conversation leads to me opening my mouth and ruining everything."

"You've been conversing with him for days," I pointed out, though I knew it wasn't the same. The buffer of texting gave Cyril confidence—or rather, my words did. A pang of something uncomfortable twisted in my chest. Something I'd been fighting to ignore.

"Through texts," Cyril emphasized. "Texts that you help craft. Texts that make me sound charming and articulate and… and so not like me."

"They are like you," I said automatically. "I'm just...helping with a little polish."

"Hart, please. I need your help. Tell me how to get out of this without him losing interest."

I closed my eyes. Part of me, a selfish, awful part I didn't want to acknowledge, felt relieved. The thought of Cyril and Jules actually meeting, of Cyril potentially not needing me anymore to communicate with this guy he was clearly falling for...

Wait. What? I shoved that thought away. No. Cyril was just a friend and what kind of friend was I if I didn't do my best to help him?

"Okay," I said, opening my laptop. "I'm coming over. This requires strategy."

Forty minutes later, I was sitting in Cyril's neat as a pin living room, takeout containers from the Thai place down the street spread across his coffee table. He paced back and forth, occasionally stopping to run his hand through his dark curls, leaving them even more disheveled.

"You're going to wear a path in your floor," I remarked, breaking apart my chopsticks. "Sit down and eat something."

"I can't eat. My stomach is in knots."

"Drama queen."

"Realist," he corrected, but sank onto the couch beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. "What am I going to do, Hart?"

I took a bite of pad thai to stall. The truth was, I understood his panic.

Cyril wasn't just shy—he had genuine social anxiety that made these situations genuinely difficult.

As his friend, I wanted to help him through it.

As his...whatever else I was becoming, I wanted to protect him from potential disappointment.

"You have options," I said finally. "You could go through with it. Meet him for coffee."

Cyril's face paled. "No."

"Or you could tell him the truth. That you're interested but not ready for in-person yet."

"And sound like a complete weirdo? 'Hey, I like talking to you but I'm terrified of actually seeing you in person'?"

"Lots of people take online connections slowly," I pointed out.

"He already thinks I'm strange for not having social media."

I couldn't argue with that. Cyril's deliberate avoidance of Instagram, Twitter, and the rest was practically unheard of for someone our age, especially in publishing.

It was one of the things I found endearing about him…

his quiet rejection of the constant performance of modern life.

But it did make him something of an anomaly.

"Third option," I said, setting down my food. "We craft a response that buys you time without rejecting the idea completely."

The hope that bloomed across Cyril's face made my chest tighten. "Yes. That one. Please."

I grabbed his phone from the coffee table. "Show me the exact message."

Cyril unlocked it and navigated to the conversation with Jules.

I skimmed through their recent exchanges, noting the easy rhythm they'd fallen into.

Most of it was my words, or at least my phrasing, but the substance was pure Cyril—his thoughts on books they'd both read, his dry observations about publishing, his gentle probing questions about Jules's life and interests.

The latest message from Jules read: I'm really enjoying our conversations. Would you want to meet for coffee this weekend? There's a great place near the part on 6th.

"When did he send this?" I asked, noting the timestamp from two hours ago.

"During my lunch break," Cyril admitted. "I've been staring at it ever since."

"And panicking instead of eating lunch, I'm guessing."

Cyril's sheepish expression confirmed my suspicion. I sighed and handed the phone back to him. "Okay. First, eat something now. Then we'll draft a response."

He obediently picked up a container of green curry and took a halfhearted bite. "What should I say?"

I considered, tapping my chopsticks against my lips. "The key is to convey interest while setting a boundary. You want to make it clear you're not rejecting him, just the timing."

"So like, 'I'd love to, but I'm busy this weekend'?"

"Too vague," I said. "And it just kicks the can down the road. He'll suggest next weekend."

"Which would also terrify me," Cyril muttered.

I fought a smile. "Let's try something more specific. Something that acknowledges the invitation as a positive step while explaining why you need more time."

I pulled out my own phone and started typing, thinking aloud as I composed.

"How about: 'I'm really enjoying our conversations, too.

I'd love to meet in person, but I should probably tell you that I'm pretty reserved when it comes to new people.

I'd like to get to know you a bit more through messages before taking that step.

Hope that doesn't come across as strange.

I just want to be honest about where I'm at. '"

I looked up to find Cyril staring at me with a mixture of awe and affection. "How do you always know what to say?"

A warm flush crept up my neck. "It's my job to find the right words. Publicity director, remember?"

"It's more than that," he said softly. "You understand people in a way I never will."

I cleared my throat, suddenly uncomfortable with his praise. "So, what do you think? Too honest?"

"No, it's perfect." He took my phone, reading over the message again. "It sounds like me, but...better."

"It sounds exactly like you," I insisted. "The you that exists when you're comfortable, when you're not overthinking every word."

He gave me a skeptical look but copied the text into his own phone. His thumb hovered over the send button. "What if he thinks I'm weird and stops responding?"

"Then he's not the right person for you," I said firmly, ignoring the treacherous little voice in my head whispering that maybe that would be for the best. "But he won't. That's a perfectly reasonable boundary to set."

Cyril took a deep breath and hit send. Then immediately threw his phone to the other end of the couch like it had burned him.

"Now we wait," he said, his voice strained.

"Now we eat," I corrected, pushing his abandoned curry back toward him. "And maybe put on a movie or something. Distraction is key."

We settled on a rewatch of "The Princess Bride," Cyril's comfort movie since childhood. As Westley and Buttercup navigated the Fire Swamp, Cyril's phone buzzed. We both froze.

"Do you want me to look?" I offered after Cyril made no move toward it.

He nodded mutely.

I retrieved the phone and checked the message, my heart doing an odd little skip as I read:

That doesn't sound strange at all. I appreciate your honesty. I tend to rush into things, so this is a good check for me. I'm enjoying getting to know you through messages, too. Maybe we could plan to meet when you're feeling more comfortable? No pressure, though.

Relief and something darker, more complicated, twisted through me. I handed the phone to Cyril. "He's a good guy."

Cyril read the message, his expression softening. "He is, isn't he?" He looked up at me, eyes bright. "What do I say now?"

"Thank him for understanding," I suggested. "Tell him you'd like to work toward meeting eventually, but for now, you're enjoying the conversation."

As Cyril typed, I watched his face—the careful concentration, the small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. My chest ached with a feeling I didn't like and wasn't ready to name. I was helping my friend connect with someone who seemed genuinely kind and patient. I should be happy for him.

I was happy for him. And also...not. Not entirely.

"Sent," Cyril announced, setting his phone down. "Thank you, Hart. Seriously, I would be lost without you."

"That's what friends are for," I said, the word "friends" suddenly feeling inadequate in a way it never had before.

"Do you think..." he started, then hesitated. "Do you think I'll ever be able to meet him without freaking out?"

The question hung between us, heavy with implications. If I was a better person, I'd offer unqualified encouragement. Instead, I found myself choosing my words carefully.

"I think when you're ready, you'll know. And if Jules is as good a guy as he seems, he'll wait until you are."

Cyril nodded slowly. "But what if I'm never ready? What if this is as brave as I get?"

"Then you'll have made a good friend through text," I said gently. "But I don't think that's true. I've seen you push past your comfort zone before."

"Only because you were there," he said quietly.

Our eyes met, and something electric passed between us. Or was I imaging it? I looked away first.

"I'll always be there if you need me," I promised, the words feeling both true and somehow like a trap I was setting for myself.

His phone buzzed again, breaking the tension. This time, Cyril checked it himself.

"He's asking about what I'm reading right now," he reported, relief evident in his voice. Safe territory.

"Tell him about that Japanese mystery you wouldn't shut up about last week," I suggested, settling back into the couch. "The one with the impossible locked-room scenario."

"'The Tokyo Zodiac Murders'?" Cyril perked up. "It's brilliant. The solution is so unexpected but makes perfect sense once revealed."

"There you go," I said, smiling at his enthusiasm. "Just talk about that like you would with me."

"But with your help on the wording," he clarified.

"Sure." I nodded, ignoring the tiny stab of... what? Jealousy? Resentment? No, that wasn't fair. This was the arrangement we'd agreed to. "Of course."

For the next hour, we crafted messages together, Cyril providing the substance while I helped shape them into clear, engaging text. It was a strange intimacy, being the conduit between Cyril and his potential boyfriend. I was simultaneously essential and invisible.

As the evening wore on, Cyril grew more relaxed, his panic about the almost-coffee date receding. When Jules eventually texted that he needed to call it a night, Cyril set down his phone with a contented sigh.

"That went well, right? He didn't seem disappointed about the coffee thing?"

"Not at all," I assured him. "If anything, I think he respects you more for being upfront."

Cyril leaned his head back against the couch, turning to face me. "Again, I don't know what I'd do without you, Hart. Seriously."

"You'd manage," I said, though I wasn't entirely sure that was true—at least not with Jules.

"No, I wouldn't," he insisted. "You make me better. You always have."

The sincerity in his voice made something inside me crack open. I stood up abruptly, gathering the empty takeout containers. "It's getting late. I should head out."

Cyril frowned, clearly confused by my sudden shift in mood. "You could stay if you want. Watch another movie?"

The offer was tempting. Too tempting. "I've got an early morning tomorrow. Marketing meeting for the Patterson launch."

"Right," he said, following me to the kitchen where I deposited the containers in his trash. "Thanks again for coming over. Crisis averted, as usual."

"Anytime," I said, and meant it, despite the complicated feelings churning inside me. I grabbed my jacket from the back of a kitchen chair. "Let me know how it goes with Jules. I'm sure he'll text again tomorrow."

"I will." He walked me to the door, hovering awkwardly as I stepped into the hallway. "Goodnight, Hart."

"Night, Cyril."

The door closed behind me, and I stood there for a moment, staring at the peeling paint of his apartment number.

What was wrong with me? This was exactly what I'd signed up for—helping a friend navigate a relationship he was too anxious to handle alone.

I should be glad it was going well, glad that Jules seemed to be a decent guy who was willing to take things at Cyril's pace.

Instead, with every message we crafted together, every smile that lit up Cyril's face at Jules's responses, I felt myself sinking deeper into a realization I'd been fighting for weeks.

I was in love with my coworker. The introvert from my office. The friend from the office I’d thought I was just trying to get to come out of his shell. And I was actively helping him fall for someone else.

The elevator chimed at the end of the hall, startling me out of my thoughts. As I walked toward it, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to my sister: Free for lunch tomorrow? Need advice.

Her response came immediately: Always free for you. Advice on what?

I stepped into the elevator and pressed the lobby button, considering how to answer. Finally, I typed:

How to be happy for someone you love when they're falling for someone else.

Oh, Hart, came her swift reply. Bring wine. This is definitely a wine conversation.

I pocketed my phone as the elevator descended, my chest tight with the weight of my revelation. I'd keep my promise to Cyril. I'd help him with Jules for as long as he needed Jules for as long as he needed me. I'd be the friend he deserved.

Even if every message felt like I was writing myself further out of the story I truly wanted to be in.