HAVE I?

The morning came back fast.

Anthony was up before his alarm, dressed in a crisp navy suit, and out the door with his usual efficiency. The city was already stirring, and the rhythm of routine settled over him like armor.

Back at his firm, he stepped into his office — clean lines, quiet corners, and the scent of fresh paper. A stack of documents waited on his desk, neatly arranged by his assistant. He skimmed through them, signed what needed signing, and reached for his phone to send a quick message.

Anthony: “Documents signed. Please come pick them up.”

He hit send.

Then paused.

He’d sent it to the wrong person.

Amelia.

He stared at the screen, mildly annoyed with himself. It wasn’t a big deal, but still he didn’t like errors. Especially not ones that involved her.

Amelia was mid-way through her day — finalizing vendor confirmations, reviewing floral arrangements, and juggling a dozen tiny fires that came with wedding planning. Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at the message, saw Anthony’s name, and blinked.

Anthony: “Documents signed. Please come pick them up.”

She tilted her head, amused.

I wasn’t expecting a message from Anthony this morning. Definitely not one that sounded like office logistics.

“Documents signed. Please come pick them up.”

I blinked at it for a second, wondering if I’d missed some secret assignment. Then I realized — wrong recipient. He meant to send it to someone at his firm.

I could’ve ignored it. I probably should’ve. But come on… it was too easy.

So I typed back:

“If you were missing me, you could’ve just said hi instead of sending this as an excuse .”

And then I stared at the screen for a full minute before hitting send.

Was it too much? Maybe. But it was funny. And harmless.

And okay, maybe I was curious to see how he’d react.

I went back to my day — vendor calls, seating chart edits, a minor crisis involving mismatched napkins. But every few minutes, I’d glance at my phone.

No reply yet.

Not that I was waiting. I wasn’t waiting.

I just… noticed.

And maybe I smiled a little more than usual today.

Walking through the venue space with a clipboard like I’m auditioning for a documentary on hyper-efficiency. The florals are late, the lighting guy is asking for a diagram I don’t have, and someone just asked me if “champagne beige” and “dusty blush” are the same color.

They are not.

But even with all that chaos, my brain keeps circling back to that message. I wasn’t trying to be flirty. Okay, maybe a little. But mostly I just wanted to see if he’d play along.

Anthony’s not the type to banter. He’s precise. Controlled. Like a spreadsheet in human form. But there’s something about him — something that makes me want to poke the edges just to see if they bend.

I check my phone again.

Still no reply.

I tell myself it’s fine. He’s probably in a meeting. Or pretending he didn’t see it. Or crafting a reply that’s exactly three words long and emotionally neutral.

And yet… I kind of hope he says something unexpected.

Not romantic. Not dramatic.

Just… real.

I finally wrapped up the last call around 6:30. The florist confirmed the delivery window, the lighting guy got his diagram, and the napkin crisis was resolved with a firm “no, they are not the same color.”

I was tired. The kind of tired that settles in your shoulders and makes your thoughts feel like molasses.

I packed up my things, gave the venue one last glance, and headed home.

The drive was quiet. Just me, the hum of traffic, and a playlist I didn’t really listen to. My mind kept drifting — not to the wedding, not to the checklist, but to that message. The one I sent to Anthony. The one he hadn’t replied to yet.

I wasn’t mad. I wasn’t even disappointed. But I was… aware.

I got home, kicked off my shoes, and greeted Miso, who was already halfway to the kitchen like he expected dinner and a TED Talk. I gave him both — kibble and a dramatic retelling of the napkin saga.

Then I changed into sweats, made myself a bowl of pasta, and curled up on the couch.

I checked my phone once. Just once.

Still nothing.

And that was fine. Really.

But as I sat there, twirling pasta and watching Miso chase a dust bunny like it owed him money, I couldn’t help but wonder — what would he say if he did reply?

Would it be dry? Would it be clever? Would it be… honest?

I didn’t know.

Anthony

Four hours.

That meeting drained me. I walked out with a headache and a list of follow-ups that made me want to cancel tomorrow.

I finally sat down at my desk, reached for my phone — and saw her message.

Amelia.

“If you were missing me, you could’ve just said hi instead of sending this as an excuse .”

I smirked. Of course she’d say that. Teasing, sharp, just enough to make me pause.

I was about to reply — thumb halfway to the keyboard — and then the screen went black.

Dead.

Perfect timing.

I didn’t have my charger on me. I’d left it in my car like a genius. So I spent the rest of the day knowing her message was sitting there, unanswered, probably making me look like I was ignoring her.

I wasn’t.

I just couldn’t reply.

By the time I got off work, I was tired, annoyed, and mildly paranoid that she thought I was ghosting her. I plugged in my phone the second I got home, watched it flicker back to life, and opened our chat

Still there. Still waiting.

I stared at it for a second. Then typed:

“Phone died. Not ignoring you. And for the record… if I were missing you, I wouldn’t need an excuse.”

I hit send.

Then tossed the phone on the couch and headed to the kitchen.

I wasn’t hungry, but I needed something to do. I poured a glass of water, leaned against the counter, and stared at the cabinets like they owed me answers.

I hadn’t meant to say that. Not exactly. But it felt honest. And I’m tired of not being honest.

She’s been on my mind more than I expected. That moment at the café — her eyes, the way she looked at me when I caught her — it’s been replaying in the quiet corners of my day.

I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t want this.

After the divorce, I told myself I’d stay clear. No complications. No emotional detours. Just work, structure, and clean exits.

But Amelia isn’t a detour. She’s… something else.

I walked back to the couch, picked up my phone again. No reply yet. That’s fine. She’ll read it when she reads it.

I sat down, stretched out, and let the silence settle.

Whatever this is — whatever it’s becoming — I’m not running from it.

Not tonight.