NEW FEELINGS

It had been a month since Anthony left Ohio.

A month since that almost-fall in the café. Since the accidental text. Since the slow, unexpected unraveling of silence between him and Amelia.

They hadn’t seen each other since, but they’d talked — more than either of them expected. Not every day, but often enough. A message here. A call there. Sometimes short. Sometimes long enough to forget the time.

They talked about work, sure. But more and more, it drifted into something else.

“Did you ever go to that old drive-in theater off Route 6?” “Remember that diner with the jukebox that always skipped?” “I used to sneak into the county fair through the back fence.”

“Wait — you were the one who started the water balloon fight at the Fourth of July picnic?”

It was easy. Familiar. Like they’d grown up in parallel, just a few streets apart, never knowing they’d eventually orbit the same moment.

Now, James and Clara’s wedding was drawing closer. Final fittings. Seating charts. Last-minute chaos. And another planning meeting had been set — this time with everyone in the same room again.

Amelia had just texted Anthony the details.

Amelia: “Meeting’s at Clara’s place this time. Saturday, 2 p.m. Don’t be late or Clara will assign you to centerpiece duty.”

He replied with a simple:

Anthony: “Noted. I’ll bring emotional support snacks.”

Neither of them said it, but they were both thinking the same thing.

They were going to see each other again.

And this time, it wouldn’t be by accident.

It’s Wednesday.

I’ve got one more day before I fly out to Ohio again. Friday morning flight. Early. I already set the alarm.

Today was long — meetings stacked back to back, one bleeding into the next. I barely had time to eat. By the time the last one wrapped, I didn’t even bother stopping by anyone’s desk. I just grabbed my coat and left.

I’m heading straight home.

I’ve got Thursday off, thank God. I plan to sleep in, pack, maybe clean up a little. Nothing ambitious.

But I keep thinking about the weekend. About seeing Amelia again.

We’ve talked more this past month than I’ve talked to anyone outside work in years. It’s strange — not just how easy it’s been, but how natural it feels. Like we’ve known each other longer than we actually have.

The way she talks about Ohio — the fairs, the diners, the little things — it’s like she’s describing my own memories. Different streets, same feeling.

I’m not sure what I’m walking into this weekend. Another wedding meeting, sure. But also… her.

And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to it.

I got home around seven. Didn’t even bother turning on the lights right away — just dropped my bag, loosened my tie, and stood in the quiet for a minute.

Tomorrow’s my day off. I should feel relieved. But my mind’s already halfway in Ohio.

I haven’t packed yet. I’ll do that in the morning. I’m not bringing much — just the essentials, plus the suit for the wedding rehearsal dinner. Clara’s been militant about dress codes.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge, sat on the couch, and scrolled through my phone. No new messages from Amelia. Not that I expected one. We’d talked yesterday — something about her favorite ice cream spot growing up and how she used to sneak extra scoops when the owner wasn’t looking.

I told her about the time I got banned from the roller rink for racing too fast. She laughed. Said she could picture it.

It’s strange. I’ve known her for such a short time, but it feels like we’ve been trading stories for years. Like we’re stitching together two halves of the same town.

I took a sip, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling.

I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what I want it to be.

But I know I want to see her again.

And Friday’s not far.

I kicked off my shoes, and headed straight for the shower.

Hot water. No noise. Just steam and silence.

I stood there longer than I needed to — letting the day rinse off me, letting my thoughts settle. I kept thinking about Ohio. About Amelia. About how easy it’s been to talk to her. How strange that feels.

I dried off, threw on a t-shirt and sweats, and padded into the kitchen.

Dinner time.

I wasn’t in the mood for anything fancy, so I went with what I knew — garlic butter pasta, grilled chicken, and a side of roasted broccoli. Simple. Clean. Enough to feel like I was taking care of myself.

While the chicken sizzled, I checked my phone again. No new messages. I wasn’t expecting one, but I still looked.

I stirred the pasta, added the garlic, tossed everything together, and plated it like I was on some cooking show — not because anyone was watching, but because it made me feel like I had control over something.

I sat down at the counter, fork in hand, and ate slowly.

After dinner, I cleaned up the kitchen, wiped down the counters, and stood there for a second, unsure of what to do next.

I wasn’t tired enough to sleep. And for once, I didn’t feel like reading.

It had been a long time since I watched anything. Months, maybe. I couldn’t even remember the last movie I sat through without checking emails halfway in.

So I grabbed the remote, opened Netflix, and started scrolling.

Nothing too heavy. Nothing too loud.

I landed on something quiet — a drama with good reviews, the kind that unfolds slowly and doesn’t try too hard. I hit play.

The opening scene was soft. Rain on a window. A man staring out like he’d lost something.

I sank into the couch, let the sound fill the room, and let myself forget everything else — work, meetings, flights, even Amelia for a moment.

Just the movie. Just the quiet.

And it felt good.

Like I’d finally given myself permission to pause.

Amelia’s pov

It’s Thursday.

I woke up earlier than I meant to — sunlight pouring through the curtains like it had something to prove. Miso was already pacing by the door, tail flicking like he had urgent business to attend to. I fed him, made coffee, and sat by the window with my mug, watching the neighborhood stretch itself awake.

Anthony flies in tomorrow.

I know that. I’m not pretending I don’t.

We haven’t talked since Tuesday — just a few texts about the meeting on Saturday. But I keep thinking about him. About the way he said, “If I were missing you, I wouldn’t need an excuse.”

I didn’t reply. Not because I didn’t want to — I just didn’t know how to respond without sounding like I was overthinking it. Which I absolutely was.

I’ve been replaying our conversations lately. The ones about Ohio. About growing up. About all the little things that made our childhoods feel like parallel stories written in the same ink.

It’s strange how easy it’s been. How natural.

I spent the morning sorting through wedding files, confirming vendors, and finalizing the playlist Clara sent me. But my mind kept drifting — to Anthony’s voice, to the way he pauses before saying something personal, like he’s measuring the weight of every word.

I wonder what he’s thinking today.

I wonder if he’s packed yet.

I wonder if he’s thinking about me.

I spent the morning buried in emails.

Clara had sent me a spreadsheet with color-coded chaos — seating arrangements, vendor confirmations, and a note that said “Anthony better not wear navy again. We need variety.” I laughed out loud. She’s relentless.

I made a few calls, confirmed the cake delivery, and sent a reminder to the DJ about the playlist. Then I headed out — quick stop at the printer’s to pick up the final signage for the reception. The guy behind the counter recognized me from last week and handed me the stack like we were old friends.

“You planning a royal wedding or something?” he joked.

“Feels like it,” I said, smiling. “Minus the tiaras.”

By noon, I was back home. Miso greeted me like I’d been gone for a decade. I gave him a treat, made myself a sandwich, and sat on the floor with my laptop, sorting through last-minute RSVPs.

I kept thinking about Anthony.

Not obsessively. Just… lightly. Like background music.

He’s flying in tomorrow. And I know we’ll see each other Saturday. But part of me wonders if he’ll text before then. If he’s packed. If he’s thinking about me the way I keep catching myself thinking about him.

I didn’t expect this — not from a wedding, not from a man who once looked at me like I was just another vendor.

But here we are.

And I’m not pretending it doesn’t matter.

I’ve been staring at my phone for five minutes.

I want to text him. Just something light. Casual. But not too casual. Something that says, “Hey, I’m thinking about you,” without actually saying it.

I type:

“Safe travels tomorrow.”

Then delete it.

Too formal.

I try:

“Don’t forget your suit. Clara will combust.”

Better. Funny. But… not enough.

I want to say something that feels like me. That feels like us. Something that makes him smile when he reads it.

I try again:

“Hope you’re packed. Ohio’s ready for you. Well… I am, anyway.”

I stare at it.

Too much?

Maybe.

But I kind of like it.

I sit with it for another minute, thumb hovering over send.

Then I hit it.

Message sent.

Now I wait.

And pretend I’m not checking my phone every five minutes.