First message
I saw you walk through the door and my entire nervous system short-circuited. You were wearing a blue sweater—soft, faded, the kind that looked like it had been washed a hundred times—and your hair was slightly damp, like you'd just showered and rushed out. You scanned the room, and when your eyes found mine, you smiled. Not a big smile. A small one. Uncertain. Like you weren't sure if you were allowed to be happy to see me. I stood up too fast and knocked my knee against the table. The coffee sloshed. I muttered an apology to no one in particular. You sat down across from me and said, "Sebastian?" like you were testing the shape of my name in your mouth, and I realized in that exact moment that I had made a terrible, irreversible mistake. Because I was supposed to look at you and see a means to an end. A vessel. A checkbox on my sister's desperate to-do list. But instead, I saw the way you bit your lip when you reached for the menu. I saw the way your fingers traced the rim of your cup like you were nervous. I saw you—not a plan, not a transaction, not a favor for Celeste—but a person. A real, warm, breathing person who had no idea that I was sitting there with an agenda. And I hated myself for it. I hated that I'd agreed to this. I hated that I was already lying to you by simply existing in this seat. But more than that—more than anything—I hated that I wanted to know your name. Not the name on the paperwork. Your name.