Scene 38¶
Previously 38¶
Weaponised Helplessness¶
Scene 38 — “Weaponised Helplessness” (Sarah POV)
There are men who are genuinely incompetent.
And then there are men who are competent enough to choose incompetence, because it’s such an efficient way to outsource their lives.
Ethan—of course his name is Ethan—falls firmly into the second category.
I realise it on a Tuesday, which is rude. Tuesday is supposed to be neutral. Tuesday is supposed to be emails and decent coffee and fabric that behaves.
Instead, I’m standing in his kitchen watching him hold a saucepan like it’s a live animal.
“I don’t really… cook,” he says, as if that’s a personality trait, not a survival skill.
The fridge behind him is full of things that aren’t meals. Milk. Eggs. Sauce bottles. A container labelled Mum’s lasagne in handwriting so obviously not his that I almost laugh.
“You live alone,” I say.
He grins. “Yeah, but Mum—”
“—does it,” I finish for him.
He blinks. “She likes helping.”
Ah. That familiar line. The one that translates as: I’ve trained a woman into my domestic life and I’m looking for a replacement model.
There are other tells.
The way he hands me a plate to wash without asking, like my hands are a service he’s entitled to activate.
The way he says “I’m terrible at laundry” like it’s cute.
The way he brings up moving in together after six weeks, and it’s not because he loves me. It’s because he’s spotted an upgrade path: from Mum to Girlfriend Mum.
At one point he looks genuinely confused that I’m not charmed.
“You’re really organised,” he says. “I like that about you.”
I stare at him.
That’s not a compliment. That’s a job description.
I go home and lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and I feel something in my chest settle into a hard, clean shape.
I am over him.
Not “thinking about being over him.”
Over him. Done.
So the next day, I do it properly.
I call him. Not text. Not a long message he can forward to his mates for sport.
A call. Clear. Brief. Unambiguous.
“Hi,” I say, and keep my voice neutral. “This isn’t working for me. I’m ending it. I’m not interested in continuing, and I’m not changing my mind.”
There’s a pause on the line where he tries to find the angle.
“Is this about that kitchen thing?” he asks, laughing slightly, like it’s banter.
“It’s about compatibility,” I say. “We’re not compatible.”
Another pause.
Then the tone shifts.
“Oh,” he says, slowly. “So what, you’re just… dumping me.”
“Yes,” I say, because men love euphemisms when they’re losing. “I am.”
He exhales sharply, offended. “Right. Okay. Wow. I didn’t think you were like that.”
I blink.
Like what? A woman with a spine?
“I’m being clear,” I say.
He tries a new tactic. Softness. “Sarah, come on. I just need you to tell me what I did wrong.”
“I’m not your coach,” I say, calm as a surgeon. “Goodbye, Ethan.”
And I end the call.
I don’t block him immediately.
That’s not optimism. That’s evidence-gathering.
It’s not my first rodeo.
At Wardrobe, I don’t announce any of this. I don’t want a round of sympathy from women who could weaponise empathy with a single raised eyebrow.
I do, however, allow myself one confession: to Bree, because Bree can make anything bearable by laughing at it without minimising it.
She’s at the big table sorting a bag of pins like they’ve personally offended her.
“How’s Mr. Tuesday?” she asks without looking up.
I drop my tote on the floor and exhale.
“He’s been returned to sender.”
Bree looks up, delighted. “Ooh. That bad?”
“He doesn’t cook,” I say.
Bree’s eyebrows lift. “Like… doesn’t cook as in doesn’t enjoy it? Or doesn’t cook as in would starve without a woman?”
“As in,” I say, “his fridge contains Mum’s lasagne and a faith-based relationship with Uber Eats.”
Bree snorts. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” I say. “And he’s got that thing. That thing where he looks at you like you’re a solution to his life.”
Bree winces. “Replacement mum.”
“Replacement mum,” I confirm. “Like I’ve got ‘domestic manager’ stamped on my forehead.”
Bree taps the pin tray once. “I’d rather chew glass.”
“Exactly.”
Charli is nearby, at the cap table, adjusting ties with that new calm she wears like it belongs to her. She’s listening without looking like she’s listening, which is a skill women develop early.
Bree, with perfect timing, says, “Honestly, babe. Women are just… better.”
She says it jokingly—mostly. Bree always says jokes like she means them and means things like they’re jokes.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, here we go.”
Charli, without looking up, drops in with a deadpan that makes me choke on my own air.
“I’m a fan.”
Bree howls, delighted. Tahlia makes a choking noise behind a sleeve. Even Lucy’s mouth twitches as if her face is briefly considering humour before rejecting it on principle.
I glare at them all, purely for show.
“Oh, shut up,” I say. “All of you.”
Charli smiles—real, unguarded—and goes back to tying her knot like she hasn’t just thrown a grenade of charm into my morning.
It’s infuriating how likeable she’s become.
Bree wipes her eyes. “So,” she says, recovering. “He took it well?”
“He took it like a man who’s never been told no without being offered a biscuit afterwards,” I say.
Bree’s expression shifts—still amused, but alert. “Meaning?”
“Meaning he tried sad,” I say. “Then tried offended. Then tried making it my fault.”
Bree points a pin at me. “And you?”
“I was clear,” I say. “No explanation. No negotiation.”
Bree’s approving nod is small but fierce. “Good girl.”
I give her a look.
Bree grins. “Sorry. Bad habit.”
“Mm.”
I should stop there. Wrap it up. Move on.
But my phone buzzes in my pocket like a warning.
I pull it out.
A message from Ethan.
Ethan: Wow. Okay. So that’s it? After everything? Ethan: I’m outside. We need to talk.
I go very still.
Bree’s smile fades when she sees my face.
“He’s not,” Bree says quietly. “He’s not outside here.”
I look toward the front windows. Nothing. No man at the gate. No shape lingering.
“No,” I say. “Not here.”
Charli’s head lifts slightly. Not panicked. Just attentive. The room’s temperature changes by half a degree—women becoming aware.
I keep my voice calm because I refuse to bring chaos into Wardrobe.
“He’s at my place,” I say.
Bree’s mouth tightens. “Do you want me to call someone?”
“No,” I say. “Not yet.”
I take one breath. Then I do what Mara would do.
I handle it clean.
I type one message back. No emotion. No opening. No softness he can grab.
Me: Do not come to my home. Do not wait for me. Do not contact me again. Me: If you come near me or my work, I will treat it as harassment and I will act accordingly.
I hit send.
Then, because I’m not daft, I screenshot it.
I create a folder.
Ethan — dates
It’s grim how quickly that feels normal.
Bree watches me do it and nods once, approval like a stamp.
Charli’s eyes stay on my face for a beat—quietly concerned, quietly present—then she drops her gaze back to her work, giving me privacy without withdrawing support.
That’s Wardrobe culture in action: you are not alone, but you are not made into a spectacle.
The kettle clicks. The iron hisses. Mara’s shears bite through fabric.
Life continues.
My phone buzzes again.
I don’t look at it immediately.
I finish what my hands are doing first, because control is sometimes as simple as choosing the order of actions.
Then I pick it up.
Another message.
Ethan: You can’t do this to me. Ethan: I just want to talk. Stop being dramatic.
I stare at the words for a moment, feeling something cold and familiar settle in my ribs.
There it is.
The entitlement, plain as daylight.
Access framed as need. My boundary framed as drama.
Bree’s voice is low. “Sarah.”
“I know,” I say.
I don’t reply.
Not now.
Because the next reply will be the kind that changes the game. The kind that invites escalation if you do it wrong.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and lift my chin.
“Work,” I say, mostly to myself.
Bree’s grin returns—smaller, harder. “Work,” she echoes.
And Charli, from the cap table, says quietly, almost under her breath:
“You won’t get used to that.”
I glance at her.
She meets my eyes with a calm that isn’t pity and isn’t fear.
Just truth.
I exhale once, slow.
“No,” I agree. “I won’t.”
And I go back to the table, letting the room hold steady around me, while somewhere outside of it a man realises—too late—that I am not his mother, and I am not his solution.
I am his boundary.
Notes26-01-23e¶
Scene 50¶
[26-01-23]
Scene 50 — “Where It’s Safe” (Celeste POV)
Charli came home like someone returning to a house after nearly losing it.
Quiet. Careful. Eyes too bright, posture a fraction too controlled. She took her shoes off by the door with obsessive neatness, as if straight lines could prevent mistakes. She hung her bag on the hook and stood there for a second too long, hands hovering, waiting for permission the way she used to.
I watched her from the kitchen.
Not hidden. Not testing.
Just… observing the new shape of her caution.
“Hi,” I said.
Charli’s gaze snapped to mine with a kind of hungry relief that she tried to swallow back immediately.
“Hi,” she whispered.
She didn’t move toward me.
That was the first sign she’d understood.
Not “I’m in trouble.”
Not “I’m unworthy.”
But: this matters enough to protect.
I set two mugs on the table, poured tea, and kept my movements ordinary on purpose. Normality is a signal. It tells the body: no danger here.
Charli came to the table and sat in the chair opposite me like she was afraid the space between us was an exam.
She folded her hands in her lap.
Her eyes didn’t linger on my mouth.
Her shoulders didn’t soften the way they had last night.
She was trying so hard to be careful that she’d turned careful into distance.
I let her sit in that for a moment. Let her prove she could.
Then I said, gently, “You can look at me.”
Charli blinked, startled—as if she’d been caught doing something wrong in reverse.
“I—” she began.
“Charli,” I said, calm. “Looking is allowed.”
Her eyes lifted slowly to my face. They were still red-rimmed from the day, but steadier now. Present. Listening.
“I’m proud of you,” I said.
The sentence did something to her. Her breath caught. Her chin trembled once, just once, before she contained it.
“I messed up,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “And then you learned.”
Charli swallowed. “I didn’t… I didn’t understand. Not really. I thought—” She stopped, frustrated, then tried again. “I thought it was… little. Just… us.”
“It was us,” I said quietly. “And it was also a room full of women who have paid for men’s stories about them.”
Charli nodded, small and precise, like she was writing it into her bones.
“I saw Sarah,” she murmured. “When she looked. Not… angry. Just…” She searched. “Alert.”
“Yes,” I said.
“And Mara,” Charli added, and the name came out with a little shiver of respect. “Mara didn’t even need to say anything.”
“No,” I agreed. “Mara is a boundary with legs.”
Charli made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh if she’d allowed herself more oxygen.
I waited until her shoulders lowered a fraction. Then I placed my hand on the table—palm up. Not reaching for her. Offering.
Charli’s eyes dropped to my hand like it was a doorway.
Her throat moved.
She didn’t take it.
Not yet.
“Remember what I said,” I murmured. “Careful doesn’t mean distant.”
Charli’s eyes flicked up to mine, questioning. Worry threaded through her expression.
“What if I—”
“You won’t,” I said, and the certainty in my voice made her go still. “Because now you understand.”
Charli exhaled shakily.
Then—slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal—she lifted her hand from her lap and placed her fingertips into my palm.
The contact was so light it barely registered as pressure.
It registered as trust.
Her touch was even gentler than last night, if that was possible—like she was handling something fragile and beloved.
My chest tightened in a way I didn’t fight.
“Like this?” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said, and my voice came out softer than I intended. “Exactly like this.”
Charli’s thumb moved once across my palm—one careful stroke—and then stopped, waiting for the rule.
I let my fingers curl around hers.
Not tight.
Not claiming.
Answering.
Charli’s breath hitched, and this time she didn’t apologise for it. She simply let the feeling exist.
Good.
I drew her hand up slowly and pressed my lips to her knuckles.
It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t dramatic.
It was… reverent.
Charli made a small sound in her throat that nearly broke me.
Her eyes shone. She blinked hard and held on.
“Celeste,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I replied.
“I… I want to be good at this,” she said, the words careful but urgent. “At… us. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt Wardrobe.”
“I know,” I said.
Then I said the part she needed, the part she’d be too afraid to ask for.
“And you didn’t,” I added. “You created risk. We corrected it. That’s what adults do.”
Charli’s shoulders eased, the tension turning into something softer, more livable.
I stood and held my hand out again.
“Come here,” I said.
Charli rose immediately—obedient reflex—then checked herself, slowed down, as if remembering she was allowed to want without rushing.
She came to me and stopped just within reach, waiting.
I placed my hands lightly at her waist and guided her closer. The pressure was minimal. The intention wasn’t.
Charli’s hands hovered near my ribs, careful, as if she was afraid to touch the wrong place.
I took her left hand and placed it gently on my shoulder.
“Here,” I said.
Then I took her right hand and placed it at my waist.
“And here.”
Charli’s fingers curved, tentative at first, then steadier as she felt I wasn’t going to pull away.
Her touch was… exquisite.
Not because it was skilled.
Because it was pure. Because it carried no entitlement. No demand. Just devotion and awe and careful joy.
I leaned down and kissed her again, slow and clean.
Charli responded immediately, softening into it like she’d been thirsty and didn’t know it.
Her hands tightened a fraction at my waist—still gentle, but certain now—and I felt my body go warm in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being wanted safely.
I broke the kiss and rested my forehead against hers.
“Tonight,” I murmured, “you don’t have to be careful like you’re handling glass.”
Charli’s breath trembled. “But I—”
“You can be careful in the right way,” I said. “Careful like you are with fabric you love. You don’t avoid it. You learn it.”
Charli nodded, eyes wet.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I can do that.”
I guided her to the couch.
We sat close, hips touching, shoulders touching, and I pulled a blanket over both of us, not because we were cold but because the weight of it made the world smaller.
Charli hesitated, then leaned into me.
Her head found my shoulder like it belonged there.
Her arm slid around my waist, cautious at first, then settling as my body welcomed it.
I kissed the top of her head.
Charli’s breath shuddered, and she whispered, barely audible, “This is safe.”
“Yes,” I said.
She shifted slightly, turning her face toward my neck, and I felt the faint brush of her lips against my skin—more like a question than an act.
I answered by tipping my head gently, giving her access without words.
Charli kissed me again, still careful, still sweet, and her hand—her unbelievable hand—traced a slow line along my forearm.
Bliss arrived in my body like a quiet flood.
Not fireworks.
Not urgency.
A deep, easing warmth, the kind you feel when something inside you stops bracing.
I held her there, letting myself want without fear, letting the floodgates stay open because the river had found its proper bed.
After a while, Charli whispered, “I won’t do it at work again.”
“I know,” I said.
“And if I forget,” she added quickly, anxiety flaring, “if I get… carried away—”
I turned my head and kissed her temple.
“Then I will correct you,” I said. “And you will learn again. That’s what this is.”
Charli went very still, then nodded against my shoulder.
“Yes,” she breathed, and something in her softened—something old, something frightened.
A girl learning that love doesn’t vanish because you make one mistake.
A girl learning that consequences aren’t rejection.
They’re care.
We stayed like that for a long time: no talking, no plans, no big declarations.
Just touch.
Hands. Breath. Quiet kisses.
A woman letting herself be held.
A girl discovering that her gentleness wasn’t a liability—it was the very thing that made her irresistible.
And when Charli finally drifted toward sleep, curled against me with her fingers still resting lightly on my wrist as if she couldn’t bear to lose contact entirely, I stared into the dim room and felt the calm settle into place.
Wardrobe was safe.
Charli was safe.
And here, in the private hush of our home, where no one could turn tenderness into gossip or leverage, love was allowed to be what it wanted to be:
soft.
steady.
and growing.
Notes26-02-03ev1¶
Truth-Time¶
✨ Truth-Time ✨
[26-02-03]
Scene 38 — “Truth-Time” (Celeste POV)
I didn’t sit back. I stayed forward in the chair, elbows on my knees, like I was about to take a measurement that mattered.
Charli’s hands were folded so tightly her knuckles looked pale. She kept her eyes on them, as if eye contact might be mistaken for bargaining.
I waited until her breathing stopped skittering.
“When did it start?” I asked.
Her head lifted, cautious.
“The… ‘she’?” she whispered.
“The secrecy,” I said. “The part where everyone at Wardrobe knew something about you that I didn’t.”
Charli swallowed. Her throat bobbed like she was forcing something down that didn’t want to go.
“Months,” she admitted. “I think… months.”
I nodded once. Not approval. Not forgiveness. Receipt.
“All right,” I said. “Tell me properly.”
She stared at her hands as if they might give her the language.
“I didn’t plan it,” she said. “It wasn’t… a thing I chose. Not at first.”
“Start anyway,” I said. “Chronologically.”
Charli took a breath. It trembled on the way out.
“It was little,” she began. “At first it was… they’d say it when I wasn’t meant to hear. Or they’d catch themselves. Or someone would correct someone else like it mattered. And I… I thought I was imagining it.”
I held my expression steady. Let her speak.
“And then,” she continued, “it wasn’t just words. It was… the way they moved around me. The way they made room. The way they stopped… bracing.”
Her eyes lifted to mine for a second, then dropped again.
“You knew,” she whispered.
“Apparently,” I said.
Charli flinched at the dryness. Good. She needed to feel the consequence without me having to raise my voice.
“They didn’t tell me,” she said quickly. “Not like… not like a meeting. It was just… happening. Like a tide coming in.”
“And you let it,” I said.
She nodded, miserable. “Yes.”
I waited. Let the silence drag the real truth up.
Charli’s voice went smaller.
“And then it got… normal,” she said. “And that’s when it got scary.”
I tilted my head a fraction. “Why.”
Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment.
“Because if it was normal,” she said, “then it was real. And if it was real, then—” She opened her eyes and finally met mine, bare and terrified. “Then I could lose it.”
A beat.
There it was. Not malice.
Scarcity.
The instinct of someone who has lived too long in a world where belonging is conditional and can be revoked without explanation.
“You thought telling me would risk it,” I said.
Charli nodded hard. “Yes.”
“And you thought not telling me would protect it,” I continued.
Another nod. “Yes.”
I watched her swallow again, the throat working, the shame building.
“And the worst part,” she whispered, “is I thought I was being… good.”
The word good broke something in me and hardened something else.
Because Charli’s idea of “good” had been trained into her by fear.
“Explain,” I said.
Charli’s hands twisted in her lap.
“I thought you had enough pressure,” she said. “I thought if I… brought you this—this messy thing—then you’d have to manage it. You’d have to decide how to act at Wardrobe. How to handle it. How to… not make it worse.”
I stayed still, listening.
“And I didn’t want to be the reason you had to do more work,” she added. “I didn’t want to be one more problem.”
My mouth tightened.
“Charli,” I said, carefully, “do you understand that you just described love as a debt.”
Her eyes widened.
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” I said. “You described it as something you have to earn by not costing me anything.”
Tears spilled faster now. She wiped them with the back of her hand—one rough swipe, like she hated herself for leaking.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and the words came out broken. “I’m sorry. I was trying— I was trying to keep you happy.”
“And you decided,” I said, “that my happiness depended on ignorance.”
She recoiled as if I’d struck her.
“No,” she whispered. “No, I—”
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t need to.
“I need you to hear this,” I said, and my tone went calm in the way it did when I was most serious. “You did the opposite of what you intended.”
Charli froze.
I let it sink in.
“You wanted to protect me,” I continued. “But you protected me from the one thing I require: the truth.”
Her face crumpled. She made a small sound—half breath, half sob.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I didn’t know it would hurt you like that.”
“You didn’t ask,” I said.
The sentence was simple. It was lethal.
Charli nodded. Her shoulders shook.
“I thought if I kept it quiet,” she said, and she sounded suddenly younger, as if the fear had peeled her back to an old age inside her, “then if it went wrong, it would only hurt me. And if it went right… you’d just get the finished version. The safe version.”
I stared at her.
“And you thought I’d prefer you safe rather than real.”
She nodded again, helpless.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Because… because everyone does.”
I felt something move in my chest. Not forgiveness.
Recognition.
Survival instinct. A patterned response. Not a calculated betrayal.
But it still wasn’t acceptable.
I let the silence sit long enough that she had to face it.
Then I spoke.
“I’m going to say something and you’re going to sit still and take it,” I said.
Charli’s head lifted slightly. She nodded once, obedient.
“I do not want the safe version,” I said. “I want the real one. And if you ever decide again that you will give me a curated version of reality because you think you know what I can handle—” I paused, because I wanted the next words to land clean. “—you will lose the part of me you like.”
Her breath caught.
Not because I was threatening to leave.
Because she understood I was describing consequences, not drama.
“Okay,” she whispered.
I watched her swallow.
“Say it back,” I said.
Charli blinked. “What?”
“The rule,” I said. “So I know you heard it.”
She wiped her face again, cheeks wet, eyes red.
“No more secrets,” she whispered. Then, as if it hurt to say it, she added, “Not from you.”
I held her gaze.
“Not from me,” I corrected.
Her mouth trembled. “Not from you,” she repeated, and this time it sounded like surrender rather than agreement.
“Good,” I said.
Charli inhaled shakily.
“And—” she started, then stopped, as if she didn’t deserve to continue.
“Go on,” I said.
Her voice came out ragged.
“And if something changes at Wardrobe… if something shifts, or the girls… if there’s anything I think might matter…” She swallowed. “I tell you. Even if I’m scared.”
“Yes,” I said. “Especially if you’re scared.”
Another nod. Tears fell again. She looked utterly wrecked by the clarity.
And then she did something that told me she was truly in it: she didn’t try to bargain for comfort. She didn’t reach for me. She stayed seated and miserable and honest.
“I was terrified,” she whispered. “I was terrified that if you knew, you’d look at me and think… this is too complicated. And you’d step back. And then everyone would step back because you stepped back.”
Her words came out in a rush now, like confession.
“And I didn’t want that to be my fault,” she said. “I didn’t want to be the thing that made you regret… any of it. The bench. The promises. The way you—” She stopped, choking. “The way you looked at me.”
There it was: the true shape of her fear.
Not the “she.” Not the girls.
Celeste’s gaze.
Celeste’s choice.
I felt my anger flare again—because she’d made me a symbol, not a person. Because she’d tried to control my reactions out of terror of losing them.
But beneath it, I could see it: the survival reflex.
Someone who believed love was always contingent.
I held the line anyway.
“Charli,” I said, “do you know what you took from me?”
She shook her head, eyes wide.
“My choice,” I said.
Her face went white.
“You made me the last person to know you were safe,” I continued. “You made me the last person to know you were included. You made me—” I stopped, because the next part was the vulnerable truth, and I hated giving it air. I gave it anyway. “—you made me feel out of control in a place where I thought we were building control together.”
Charli’s shoulders collapsed. She didn’t just cry now—she folded forward, hands clamped over her mouth as if the sound of herself was unbearable.
“I’m sorry,” she choked. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry— I didn’t mean—”
I lifted a hand.
“Stop,” I said.
She froze mid-sob, eyes huge.
I kept my voice measured. “I believe you weren’t trying to hurt me.”
Charli stared, disbelieving.
“But,” I added, “you did hurt me.”
A shiver moved through her.
“And I’m not going to pretend you didn’t,” I said. “Because that’s how resentment grows teeth.”
She nodded, shaking.
I let her breathe.
Then I said the part that acknowledged her survival instinct without excusing it.
“You did what you’ve learned to do,” I said. “You managed. You minimised. You tried to keep the powerful person calm so you could keep your place.”
Charli’s eyes squeezed shut. A sob escaped anyway.
“I hate that,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said. “But you need to recognise it. Because if you don’t name it, you’ll do it again.”
She nodded hard. “I will name it. I will. I didn’t realise. I didn’t realise I was… doing that to you.”
A beat.
Then she said, very small, very raw:
“I thought I was protecting you. And I did the thing that hurts you most.”
I watched her. The sentence had cost her. It wasn’t performance. It was comprehension.
This was the moment that mattered.
I didn’t soften into romance. Not yet.
But I did give her something, because she needed a path forward that wasn’t “be perfect or lose everything.”
“You don’t fix this by grovelling,” I said.
Charli blinked at me, startled. Like she’d been expecting to be told she had to suffer to be forgiven.
“You fix it by changing your behaviour,” I continued. “Boringly. Consistently. No theatrics.”
Her lower lip trembled.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. I can do that. I can— I will.”
I nodded once.
“And,” I said, because she needed to hear the other half, “I’m not withdrawing what I offered you earlier.”
Her eyes flew up.
I held her gaze.
“I meant it,” I said. “The bench. The promises. The more to come.”
Charli looked like she couldn’t breathe.
“But,” I added, and my voice sharpened into a clean edge, “you don’t get to use intimacy as a way to avoid accountability. You don’t get comfort as a sedative.”
She swallowed. Nodded. “Okay.”
“Good,” I said.
A silence settled. Not warm. Not hostile.
Functional.
Charli wiped her face again, slow this time, calmer. Like she was putting herself back together deliberately.
“Can I say one more thing?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “But make it true.”
Her mouth trembled into something like a sad smile.
“I was scared,” she said, “that if I told you… I would cause the very thing I was trying to prevent. That you would step back.”
She met my eyes fully now—brave in the way frightened people are brave.
“And by not telling you,” she whispered, “I caused it anyway.”
I felt the sentence hit something in me and settle there.
That was the irony. The education. The painful clarity.
I nodded once, slowly.
“Yes,” I said. “You did.”
Charli flinched—but she didn’t look away this time.
She took the truth.
I let the beat hold. Then I stood.
Not to leave. To signal transition.
“You’re going to get us water,” I said. “Then you’re going to sit back down. And you’re going to tell me what you need from me when you get scared—so you don’t default to secrecy.”
Charli stared, stunned. “You… you still want—”
“I want reality,” I cut in, and there was the softness, finally, like a hand placed on the back of her neck. “I want you to bring me the messy version. Not the polished one.”
Her eyes filled again.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I can do that.”
I paused at the doorway, just long enough to make sure she understood the terms.
“And Charli,” I added.
She looked up.
My voice lowered, quiet and precise.
“This is me choosing you with my eyes open,” I said. “Don’t you ever take that from me again.”
Her face broke. She nodded, fiercely, like she was making a vow with her whole body.
“I won’t,” she whispered. “I won’t. I swear.”
I let myself exhale once.
Then I turned toward the kitchen.
And behind me, I heard her move—slowly, carefully—like someone who had finally understood that being loved didn’t mean being managed.
It meant being known.
Quick craft note (not required, but helpful)¶
If you want Charli to “grovel” without it becoming melodrama, keep it behavioural rather than verbal:
- she stays seated when she wants to crawl to Celeste
- she repeats the rule back
- she accepts the consequence (no immediate cuddles/kisses)
- she asks what to do next (repair through action)
That reads as earnest, not performative.
If you want, I can now draft Scene 39 (the later warmth returning safely), where Charli demonstrates the “boring reliability” proof—and the bench promise gets honoured in a way that feels inevitable rather than soothing.
Notes26-02-03ev2¶
Truth-Time¶
✨ Truth-Time ✨
[26-02-03]
Scene 38 — “Truth-Time” (Celeste POV)
I didn’t sit back. I stayed forward in the chair, elbows on my knees, like I was about to take a measurement that mattered.
Charli’s hands were folded so tightly her knuckles looked pale. She kept her eyes on them, as if eye contact might be mistaken for bargaining.
I waited until her breathing stopped skittering.
“When did it start?” I asked.
Her head lifted, cautious.
“The… ‘she’?” she whispered.
“The secrecy,” I said. “The part where everyone at Wardrobe knew something about you that I didn’t.”
Charli swallowed. Her throat bobbed like she was forcing something down that didn’t want to go.
“Months,” she admitted. “I think… months.”
I nodded once. Not approval. Not forgiveness. Receipt.
“All right,” I said. “Tell me properly.”
She stared at her hands as if they might give her the language.
“I didn’t plan it,” she said. “It wasn’t… a thing I chose. Not at first.”
“Start anyway,” I said. “Chronologically.”
Charli took a breath. It trembled on the way out.
“It was little,” she began. “At first it was… they’d say it when I wasn’t meant to hear. Or they’d catch themselves. Or someone would correct someone else like it mattered. And I… I thought I was imagining it.”
I held my expression steady. Let her speak.
“And then,” she continued, “it wasn’t just words. It was… the way they moved around me. The way they made room. The way they stopped… bracing.”
Her eyes lifted to mine for a second, then dropped again.
“You knew,” she whispered.
“Apparently,” I said.
Charli flinched at the dryness. Good. She needed to feel the consequence without me having to raise my voice.
“They didn’t tell me,” she said quickly. “Not like… not like a meeting. It was just… happening. Like a tide coming in.”
“And you let it,” I said.
She nodded, miserable. “Yes.”
I waited. Let the silence drag the real truth up.
Charli’s voice went smaller.
“And then it got… normal,” she said. “And that’s when it got scary.”
I tilted my head a fraction. “Why.”
Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment.
“Because if it was normal,” she said, “then it was real. And if it was real, then—” She opened her eyes and finally met mine, bare and terrified. “Then I could lose it.”
A beat.
There it was. Not malice.
Scarcity.
The instinct of someone who has lived too long in a world where belonging is conditional and can be revoked without explanation.
“You thought telling me would risk it,” I said.
Charli nodded hard. “Yes.”
“And you thought not telling me would protect it,” I continued.
Another nod. “Yes.”
I watched her swallow again, the throat working, the shame building.
“And the worst part,” she whispered, “is I thought I was being… good.”
The word good broke something in me and hardened something else.
Because Charli’s idea of “good” had been trained into her by fear.
“Explain,” I said.
Charli’s hands twisted in her lap.
“I thought you had enough pressure,” she said. “I thought if I… brought you this—this messy thing—then you’d have to manage it. You’d have to decide how to act at Wardrobe. How to handle it. How to… not make it worse.”
I stayed still, listening.
“And I didn’t want to be the reason you had to do more work,” she added. “I didn’t want to be one more problem.”
My mouth tightened.
“Charli,” I said, carefully, “do you understand that you just described love as a debt.”
Her eyes widened.
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” I said. “You described it as something you have to earn by not costing me anything.”
Tears spilled faster now. She wiped them with the back of her hand—one rough swipe, like she hated herself for leaking.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and the words came out broken. “I’m sorry. I was trying— I was trying to keep you happy.”
“And you decided,” I said, “that my happiness depended on ignorance.”
She recoiled as if I’d struck her.
“No,” she whispered. “No, I—”
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t need to.
“I need you to hear this,” I said, and my tone went calm in the way it did when I was most serious. “You did the opposite of what you intended.”
Charli froze.
I let it sink in.
“You wanted to protect me,” I continued. “But you protected me from the one thing I require: the truth.”
Her face crumpled. She made a small sound—half breath, half sob.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I didn’t know it would hurt you like that.”
“You didn’t ask,” I said.
The sentence was simple. It was lethal.
Charli nodded. Her shoulders shook.
“I thought if I kept it quiet,” she said, and she sounded suddenly younger, as if the fear had peeled her back to an old age inside her, “then if it went wrong, it would only hurt me. And if it went right… you’d just get the finished version. The safe version.”
I stared at her.
“And you thought I’d prefer you safe rather than real.”
She nodded again, helpless.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Because… because everyone does.”
I felt something move in my chest. Not forgiveness.
Recognition.
Survival instinct. A patterned response. Not a calculated betrayal.
But it still wasn’t acceptable.
I let the silence sit long enough that she had to face it.
Then I spoke.
“I’m going to say something and you’re going to sit still and take it,” I said.
Charli’s head lifted slightly. She nodded once, obedient.
“I do not want the safe version,” I said. “I want the real one. And if you ever decide again that you will give me a curated version of reality because you think you know what I can handle—” I paused, because I wanted the next words to land clean. “—you will lose the part of me you like.”
Her breath caught.
Not because I was threatening to leave.
Because she understood I was describing consequences, not drama.
“Okay,” she whispered.
I watched her swallow.
“Say it back,” I said.
Charli blinked. “What?”
“The rule,” I said. “So I know you heard it.”
She wiped her face again, cheeks wet, eyes red.
“No more secrets,” she whispered. Then, as if it hurt to say it, she added, “Not from you.”
I held her gaze.
“Not from me,” I corrected.
Her mouth trembled. “Not from you,” she repeated, and this time it sounded like surrender rather than agreement.
“Good,” I said.
Charli inhaled shakily.
“And—” she started, then stopped, as if she didn’t deserve to continue.
“Go on,” I said.
Her voice came out ragged.
“And if something changes at Wardrobe… if something shifts, or the girls… if there’s anything I think might matter…” She swallowed. “I tell you. Even if I’m scared.”
“Yes,” I said. “Especially if you’re scared.”
Another nod. Tears fell again. She looked utterly wrecked by the clarity.
And then she did something that told me she was truly in it: she didn’t try to bargain for comfort. She didn’t reach for me. She stayed seated and miserable and honest.
“I was terrified,” she whispered. “I was terrified that if you knew, you’d look at me and think… this is too complicated. And you’d step back. And then everyone would step back because you stepped back.”
Her words came out in a rush now, like confession.
“And I didn’t want that to be my fault,” she said. “I didn’t want to be the thing that made you regret… any of it. The bench. The promises. The way you—” She stopped, choking. “The way you looked at me.”
There it was: the true shape of her fear.
Not the “she.” Not the girls.
Celeste’s gaze.
Celeste’s choice.
I felt my anger flare again—because she’d made me a symbol, not a person. Because she’d tried to control my reactions out of terror of losing them.
But beneath it, I could see it: the survival reflex.
Someone who believed love was always contingent.
I held the line anyway.
“Charli,” I said, “do you know what you took from me?”
She shook her head, eyes wide.
“My choice,” I said.
Her face went white.
“You made me the last person to know you were safe,” I continued. “You made me the last person to know you were included. You made me—” I stopped, because the next part was the vulnerable truth, and I hated giving it air. I gave it anyway. “—you made me feel out of control in a place where I thought we were building control together.”
Charli’s shoulders collapsed. She didn’t just cry now—she folded forward, hands clamped over her mouth as if the sound of herself was unbearable.
“I’m sorry,” she choked. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry— I didn’t mean—”
I lifted a hand.
“Stop,” I said.
She froze mid-sob, eyes huge.
I kept my voice measured. “I believe you weren’t trying to hurt me.”
Charli stared, disbelieving.
“But,” I added, “you did hurt me.”
A shiver moved through her.
“And I’m not going to pretend you didn’t,” I said. “Because that’s how resentment grows teeth.”
She nodded, shaking.
I let her breathe.
Then I said the part that acknowledged her survival instinct without excusing it.
“You did what you’ve learned to do,” I said. “You managed. You minimised. You tried to keep the powerful person calm so you could keep your place.”
Charli’s eyes squeezed shut. A sob escaped anyway.
“I hate that,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said. “But you need to recognise it. Because if you don’t name it, you’ll do it again.”
She nodded hard. “I will name it. I will. I didn’t realise. I didn’t realise I was… doing that to you.”
A beat.
Then she said, very small, very raw:
“I thought I was protecting you. And I did the thing that hurts you most.”
I watched her. The sentence had cost her. It wasn’t performance. It was comprehension.
This was the moment that mattered.
I didn’t soften into romance. Not yet.
But I did give her something, because she needed a path forward that wasn’t “be perfect or lose everything.”
“You don’t fix this by grovelling,” I said.
Charli blinked at me, startled. Like she’d been expecting to be told she had to suffer to be forgiven.
“You fix it by changing your behaviour,” I continued. “Boringly. Consistently. No theatrics.”
Her lower lip trembled.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. I can do that. I can— I will.”
I nodded once.
“And,” I said, because she needed to hear the other half, “I’m not withdrawing what I offered you earlier.”
Her eyes flew up.
I held her gaze.
“I meant it,” I said. “The bench. The promises. The more to come.”
Charli looked like she couldn’t breathe.
“But,” I added, and my voice sharpened into a clean edge, “you don’t get to use intimacy as a way to avoid accountability. You don’t get comfort as a sedative.”
She swallowed. Nodded. “Okay.”
“Good,” I said.
A silence settled. Not warm. Not hostile.
Functional.
Charli wiped her face again, slow this time, calmer. Like she was putting herself back together deliberately.
“Can I say one more thing?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “But make it true.”
Her mouth trembled into something like a sad smile.
“I was scared,” she said, “that if I told you… I would cause the very thing I was trying to prevent. That you would step back.”
She met my eyes fully now—brave in the way frightened people are brave.
“And by not telling you,” she whispered, “I caused it anyway.”
I felt the sentence hit something in me and settle there.
That was the irony. The education. The painful clarity.
I nodded once, slowly.
“Yes,” I said. “You did.”
Charli flinched—but she didn’t look away this time.
She took the truth.
I let the beat hold. Then I stood.
Not to leave. To signal transition.
“You’re going to get us water,” I said. “Then you’re going to sit back down. And you’re going to tell me what you need from me when you get scared—so you don’t default to secrecy.”
Charli stared, stunned. “You… you still want—”
“I want reality,” I cut in, and there was the softness, finally, like a hand placed on the back of her neck. “I want you to bring me the messy version. Not the polished one.”
Her eyes filled again.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I can do that.”
I paused at the doorway, just long enough to make sure she understood the terms.
“And Charli,” I added.
She looked up.
My voice lowered, quiet and precise.
“This is me choosing you with my eyes open,” I said. “Don’t you ever take that from me again.”
Her face broke. She nodded, fiercely, like she was making a vow with her whole body.
“I won’t,” she whispered. “I won’t. I swear.”
I let myself exhale once.
Then I turned toward the kitchen.
And behind me, I heard her move—slowly, carefully—like someone who had finally understood that being loved didn’t mean being managed.
It meant being known.
Notes26-02-04ev1¶
ss¶
[26-02-04]
Scene 38 — “Heat, With Teeth” (Celeste POV, past tense)¶
The heat had its own personality tonight—clingy, impatient, insinuating itself under skin and into thought. The pedestal fan moved left to right like an indifferent metronome, pushing warm air around rather than removing it.
Sarah’s lipstick mark still ghosted one mug on the table.
Celeste stared at it for a moment longer than necessary, then turned away as if that tiny stain had said something insulting.
Charli was on the couch, knees drawn up, hands busy with the edge of the throw. She looked like someone waiting for a verdict.
Celeste sat beside her, close enough that their thighs touched—contact made quiet and ordinary, not a dramatic claim. Charli’s breath hitched anyway. There it was, that old reflex: brace, shrink, behave.
Celeste put two fingers to Charli’s pulse—lightly, deliberately—feeling the quick thrum that betrayed her before words could.
“Look at me,” she said.
Not sharp. Not soft. Simply true.
Charli’s eyes lifted.
It was always startling, how open her face was when she surrendered the habit of hiding. Not just pretty—though she was, in that gentle, almost startled way—but unguarded. As if the world had never taught her to weaponise herself.
Celeste’s mouth curved once.
“I’m not angry with you,” Celeste said. “I’m angry I missed you.”
Charli blinked, lashes damp. She tried for a sentence and failed.
Celeste leaned in and kissed her—right on the mouth, no preamble. Not because she was impatient. Because she refused to make this into a hearing.
The kiss wasn’t rough. It wasn’t rushed. But it had no apology in it.
Charli froze for the length of a heartbeat, then softened—melted—like the question had finally been asked in a language she understood.
Celeste tasted coffee on her, the faint sweetness of whatever Sarah had insisted they try, and underneath that the heat of Charli’s own body. The warmth was not incidental; it was invitation.
Celeste kissed again, deeper. Charli made a small sound that was not practiced and not performative—purely involuntary.
Celeste pulled back only enough to see her.
Charli’s lips were parted. Her pupils were wide. She looked dazed with relief and with wanting, as if she hadn’t quite believed she was allowed to want anything without first being useful.
Celeste felt something shift low in her belly—an iron certainty dressed in silk.
“Do you want this?” she asked, quiet and direct.
Charli nodded fast, then caught herself as if enthusiasm might be punishable. “Yes.”
The “yes” landed like a key turning.
Celeste kissed her again, and this time she didn’t manage the kiss like a careful woman tidying up her own feelings. She let her desire show—through the firmness of her hand at Charli’s jaw, the way she guided the angle of her mouth, the calm insistence of stay with me.
Charli’s fingers clutched at Celeste’s sleeve, then loosened, then returned—as if her body kept checking whether the warmth was real.
Celeste slid her hand to Charli’s throat again, thumb resting over the pulse. It wasn’t a hold. It was a signal: I can feel you. I’m here. You don’t have to disappear.
Charli shivered—this time not with fear, but with recognition.
The fan clicked as it turned. The clock kept counting. Somewhere outside a car passed with its windows down, music leaking into the night like somebody else’s life.
Celeste didn’t care.
She moved them—not dragging, not manoeuvring—simply guiding Charli down along the couch so Charli could lie back properly, supported, comfortable. Charli let herself be placed, pliant in the most disarming way. Not passive—trusting.
Celeste paused, watching Charli’s face.
“Still yes?” she asked.
Charli’s reply was breathy, certain. “Yes.”
The second yes felt different: not a plea, but consent with confidence.
Good girl, Celeste thought—not as praise for obedience, but as a private recognition of Charli’s courage. Of her willingness to remain present.
Celeste bent and kissed her again, slower now, letting her mouth wander—cheek, the corner of her lips, the hollow beneath her ear. Charli’s head tipped back on instinct, giving her access as if her body already understood what her mind was still catching up to.
And then Celeste’s hunger rose—clean, focused, unapologetic.
Not the hunger of taking.
The hunger of choosing.
She kissed Charli with more pressure, more certainty, and Charli answered with a soft, broken sound that went straight through Celeste like a spark.
Charli’s hands found Celeste—hesitant at first, then braver. Fingers at her shoulder, her arm, the side of her ribs—touching as if confirming Celeste was real. As if astonished Celeste wanted her like this: not as a duty, not as an ethical project, but as a woman wanting a woman.
Celeste lifted her head and looked down at Charli’s face.
Charli looked utterly undone—eyes glossy, mouth pink from kissing, expression open in a way Celeste could only describe as relieved to be wanted.
It made Celeste go very still.
Not because she didn’t want her.
Because she wanted her so fiercely she needed to be careful with it.
“You’re not going to vanish on me,” Celeste said, her voice low. “Not in my house. Not with me.”
Charli’s throat worked. “I’m here.”
Celeste brushed a kiss to the corner of her mouth—almost tender again, almost gentle.
Then she spoke against Charli’s lips, and there was a smile in it, a small, dangerous warmth.
“Good,” she murmured. “Stay.”
Charli’s eyes fluttered shut as if the word had weight.
Celeste kissed her, and this time she didn’t keep herself politely in check. She let the heat in her body translate into touch—still respectful, still attentive, but unmistakably hungry. She let Charli feel it: I want you, and I am not ashamed of that.
Charli arched into her with a soft sound, and Celeste felt the moment Charli stopped holding herself apart from pleasure.
There was no dramatics. No performance.
Just a gradual, beautiful surrender.
Charli’s breathing changed—deeper, more ragged. Her hands tightened, then softened, then held Celeste with a kind of reverence that made Celeste’s chest ache.
Celeste pressed her forehead briefly to Charli’s, and for a moment the hunger eased into something like awe.
“I’m going to pay attention,” Celeste said again, quieter now, the vow settling into place. “Properly. I’m not outsourcing you to anyone.”
Charli’s eyes opened, wet and shining. “Okay,” she whispered.
Celeste kissed her once more—slow, sealing.
And when Charli finally exhaled, she did it like someone who had been bracing for years and had, at last, been allowed to rest.
Celeste held her there, close and claimed, until the fan swung back again and the room remembered how to breathe.
End Scene 38.
Notes26-02-04ev1¶
Now Scene 38¶
[26-02-04]
Scene 39 — opener (Sarah POV, past tense)
He left like a man who believed the world was fundamentally in order. His departure was not hurried or sneaky, but it wasn’t tender either: just the satisfied efficiency of someone who’d taken what he came for and now felt pleasantly finished with the evening, like a person putting a glass into the sink after a drink.
Sarah lay on her back and listened to the small sounds of his departure: the soft thud of shoes near the door, the faint jingle of keys, the brief pause as he decided whether to say something meaningful and then—predictably—didn’t.
The latch clicked.
Silence settled over the bedroom in a way that didn’t feel peaceful. It felt… vacant. Like the room had been drained of something it hadn’t been holding much of to begin with.
Sarah stared at the ceiling fan as it rotated lazily through the warm dark. The air was still thick with heat and the faint, bland smell of him—soap and deodorant and that particular male confidence that always seemed to assume it was welcome.
She could have called it “fine.”
The act itself had been fine. Adequate. Not violent, not rude, not even particularly selfish in a way that would be easy to name.
But that was the problem: it hadn’t been anything.
No tenderness. No afterglow. No lingering hand on her waist as if her body was worth remembering. No kiss that said, I liked being near you, instead of I enjoyed what you did for me.
He’d been happy. Of course he had.
Sarah wasn’t even angry at the sex. She was irritated by the emptiness around it—the way he’d risen afterward and resumed being a person with plans, while she remained… a surface the night had happened on.
She let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.
Men were astonishing like that: perfectly capable of taking pleasure and mistaking it for intimacy.
Sarah rolled onto her side and stared at the patch of sheet he’d left behind—already cooling, already irrelevant.
Her fingers flexed once against the fabric, restless.
And in the quiet, uninvited and sharp as lemon, a thought arrived:
If that’s the best they can do with a woman who knows her own mind… what do they do to girls who don’t?
Sarah’s mouth tightened.
She thought of Celeste—of that calm, watchful competence that occasionally slipped into something more dangerous when it was provoked. She thought of Charli—soft, earnest, heartbreakingly grateful for kindness.
And Sarah felt the same irritation rise again, not at the man who’d just left, but at the wider pattern: the way tenderness was treated like an optional extra, the way women were expected to settle for “fine” and call it romance.
“No,” Sarah said aloud, to the empty room.
It came out quiet.
It came out like a promise.
Notes26-02-12rv1¶
xx¶
[26-02-12]
Absolutely, Robyn. Here’s Sarah in her own head: dry as good gin, observant, not melodramatic — but with that quiet steel underneath. I’ve kept your structure and most of the beats, just shifted the lens into Sarah’s voice and sharpened the wit. 🫶
📱 The Golf Course Call 📱
[ Sarah ]
He left like a man who thought the universe was basically a well-run hotel. Not hurried, not sneaky — just that satisfied, economical exit of someone who’d collected what he came for and now felt pleasantly “done,” like putting a glass in the sink after a drink and expecting applause for it.
I stayed flat on my back and listened to the little noises of him un-being there: shoes thudding near the door, keys giving their smug little jingle, the short pause where he weighed up saying something human and then — predictably — didn’t.
The latch clicked.
And the room didn’t go quiet so much as… hollow.
Vacant.As if someone had opened a drain and let out the last few litres of warmth the place had been pretending to hold. The ceiling fan turned lazily through the dark, doing its best impression of effort. The air was still thick with heat and the faint, bland smell of him — soap, deodorant, and that particular male confidence that always behaves as if it’s been invited.
I could have called it fine.
The sex itself had been fine. Adequate. Not violent, not rude, not even selfish in a way that would make for a clean story you could tell your friends over coffee.
That was the problem.
It wasn’t anything. No tenderness. No afterglow. No lingering hand at my waist as if my body was worth remembering. No kiss that said, I liked being near you, instead of thank you for your service.He’d been happy, of course. Men are often happy when the world does what it’s told. He’d rolled off, stood up, and instantly resumed being a person with plans. I remained exactly where I was: a surface the night had happened on. Like a countertop you wipe and forget.And, I’d let myself hope, just a little. That was on me.
I let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.
There’s a trick some men pull — not even consciously, half the time. They take pleasure and mistake it for intimacy, like the two are bundled in the same packet and you can’t possibly separate them.
They could. They just don’t bother.
I rolled onto my side and stared at the patch of sheet he’d left behind — already cooling, already irrelevant.
My fingers flexed once against the fabric, restless. Not wanting him. Not wanting more.
Wanting meaning.
And in the quiet, uninvited and sharp as lemon, a thought arrived and sat down like it owned the place:
If that’s the best they can do with a woman who knows her own mind… what do they do to girls who don’t?
My mouth tightened.
I thought of Celeste—calm, watchful, competent; the sort of girl who could smile while she dismantled you. And Charli—soft, earnest, heartbreakingly grateful for kindness, as if kindness were a ration instead of a basic human right.
And the irritation rose again—not even at him, specifically. He was just… a representative sample. A free trial of the wider pattern. The way tenderness was treated like an optional extra. The way women were expected to settle for “fine” and then thank them for the effort.
My phone lay on the bedside table.
I stared at it.
It wasn’t rage that moved me. Rage is messy. Rage implies investment. This was simpler: the quiet certainty of realising I’d been accepting something beneath my standards—and feeling, not shame, but irritation that I’d let it waste even one evening of my life.
I thumbed my contacts, found his name, and tapped.
It rang longer than it should have. Then sound flooded in: wind, men’s laughter, that hollow openness you only got outdoors when men were congratulating themselves for being outside.
“Hey,” he said, voice bright. Pleased with himself. A pause. “You right?”
I closed my eyes for a beat.
“Yep,” I said. “I’m ending this.”
A pause, this time, his. Like the words had reached his ears but couldn’t find a place to land.
“Sorry, what?”
“I’m ending this,” I repeated, confidently calm. “Whatever we were pretending it was.”
His laugh came out wrong—quick, defensive. “Wait, what? Because of… why? Sarah, come on—”
Behind him, someone called his name, muffled by distance.
“Mate, you teeing off or what?”
He lowered his voice, as if privacy would make him sound more reasonable. “Listen, you’re overthinking things. We’re good. We have fun!” Another pause. “Look, don’t do this on the phone.”
I looked at my bare feet on the carpet. The ordinary domesticity of the moment almost amused me. Almost.
“No, this is actually the perfect place to do it,” I said. “You’re with your mates. You’ll recover. Quickly.”
He exhaled hard.“This is insane.”
“No,” I said softly. “What’s insane is you thinking you get to argue about it.”
I heard him moving: steps on grass, the shift of him putting distance between himself and the audience. Wind buffeted the mic. Somewhere behind him, a club clinked against something solid.
“Sarah, seriously—what do you want from me?” he demanded, like I was a faulty appliance he’d been patient with. The question was so revealing I almost thanked him.
“What did I want? Tenderness.” I let the word sit there between us like a dropped glass.
Silence.
Not thoughtful silence. Not I hear you silence. Just… blank. Then he did what men did when they were offered a feeling they couldn’t quantify: he tried to bargain.
“Look, I can be— I mean, I am… look, we can work on that.”
I smiled without humour.
“That,” I said, “is the problem. It’s not a renovation project.”
A small sound: frustration, offence. The first hint he’d expected me to be easier than this.“So you’re just… done?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you liked me.”
“I do,” I said, because it was true in the limited way you liked someone who never made you feel unsafe. “But liking you isn’t the same thing as wanting this. And I don’t date to fill space.”
Another pause. A longer one. I could almost hear his brain searching for the correct lever. Then his voice softened—tactical, not tender.
“We can talk about it tonight.”
“No,” I said, and the word landed like a door closing.
“Sarah… don’t be like that.”
I glanced at the phone as if it had said something stupid.
“Like what?”
“Cold.”
My brow lifted. I heard his breathing now, a little faster. The first crack in his confidence. Not remorse—just the unpleasant realisation that the thing he’d assumed would remain available was, in fact, capable of walking away.
“I’m not cold,” I said. “I’m finished.”
He spoke again. I didn’t listen for meaning. I listened for habit.
Then I hung up.
The quiet after was immediate, like a room after a door clicks shut.
My phone buzzed—missed call. Another. I turned it over, face-down, and went to make coffee.
The magpie outside warbled, pleased with itself.
I smiled.
Done meant done.
End Scene 39.
“No,” I said aloud, to the empty room.
It came out quiet.
It came out like a promise.
If you want, I can give you two alternate Sarah flavours as well:
- More acerbic / funnier (she skewers him a bit harder)
- More wounded-but-contained (same spine, but the loneliness peeks through)
Just say which way you want her dial turned. 💛
Notes26-02-06ev¶
Ist Person ReWrite¶
[26-02-06]
Oh yes — that’s exactly the right preamble, Robyn. If the world immediately offers her “look, love exists” (Bree/Lily, Celeste/Charli), then Sarah’s scene wants to land as: she’s not jealous, she’s just… empty in a way she doesn’t usually permit herself to admit. The humour stays, but it’s quieter — a coping mechanism, not a flourish.
Here’s the more wounded/contained Sarah POV version:
He left like a man who believed the world was fundamentally tidy. Not because it was, but because it was easier to live inside that belief.
His departure wasn’t hurried or sneaky — it wasn’t even unkind. It was simply efficient. The satisfied competence of someone who’d come, done the thing, and now felt pleasantly finished with the evening, like rinsing a cup and setting it on the rack.
I stayed on my back and listened to the small sounds of him collecting himself: the soft thud of shoes near the door, the faint jingle of keys, the brief pause where he considered saying something that might linger.
He didn’t.
The latch clicked.
Silence settled. Not peaceful — not the kind that wraps around you like a blanket — but the other kind. The kind that arrives with a slight draft, as if the room is gently reminding you it has no obligation to be warm.
The ceiling fan rotated lazily through the dark, blades slicing the air that wasn’t moving. The heat still clung to everything, and the faint, bland smell of him sat in the room like an afterthought — soap and deodorant and that particular male certainty that always assumes it’s welcome.
I could have called it fine.
The act itself had been fine. Adequate. Not violent. Not rude. Not even selfish in a way that would make it simple to hate him for it.
That was the problem.
It hadn’t been anything.
No tenderness. No afterglow. No hand finding my waist afterward as if my body was worth remembering. No kiss that said, I liked being near you, instead of thank you, that’ll do.
He’d been happy.
Of course he had.
He’d rolled away, stood up, and immediately resumed being a person with plans. The sort of person who could decide what the rest of his night would look like, as if other people were just… scenery.
And I stayed where I was, staring at the ceiling fan, feeling oddly supervised by it. As if it might start keeping score.
I let out a breath that could have been a laugh if it had wanted to be. It didn’t.
There was a familiar urge to make a joke — to reduce it to something sharp and clever, something that would fit neatly in my mouth and not ask me for anything. But the joke wouldn’t come. Or rather: it came, then dissolved before it reached my lips, like it didn’t want to be used as a bandage again.
Because it wasn’t the sex, really.
The sex was the part I could label. The part you can talk about in concrete terms and then file away.
It was everything around it — the blankness where tenderness should have been. The way he’d left without looking back, not because he meant harm, but because it hadn’t occurred to him that there might be anything worth looking back at.
I rolled onto my side and stared at the patch of sheet he’d left behind. Already cooling. Already less important than his keys.
My fingers flexed once against the fabric, restless. Not longing for him — God, no — just reaching for… something. A sign. A small human weight. A hand that stayed. A word that didn’t feel like a formality.
The room offered nothing.
And in the quiet, uninvited and sharp as lemon, a thought arrived — not dramatic, not even new — just plain and mean in its simplicity:
If that’s the best they can do with a woman who knows her own mind… what do they do to girls who don’t?
My throat tightened.
Not with anger.
With a kind of cold recognition that lived somewhere behind my ribs.
I thought of Celeste — calm, watchful competence, the kind that made men mistake her restraint for softness until she corrected them. And Charli — soft, earnest, heartbreakingly grateful for kindness, as if kindness were a rare currency and he’d been living on scraps.
And I felt the irritation rise — not at him, specifically. He was only a symptom. A sample size of one, with the confidence of a study.
The wider pattern was the thing that made me tired: the way tenderness was treated like a luxury item. The way women were expected to accept “fine” and call it romance. The way a man could take what he wanted and then walk out as if he’d done you a favour by not being awful.
I swallowed. The loneliness sat there, quiet and heavy, like a coat I didn’t remember putting on.
Not a romantic loneliness. Not I want him.
Just the dull ache of wanting to be held without having to earn it. Wanting someone to stay because they liked the person you were, not because your body happened to be available.
I stared at the ceiling fan again. The blades kept turning, steady as a metronome. Time, indifferent. Rhythm, without music.
“No,” I said aloud, to the empty room.
It came out quiet.
It came out like something I’d decided a long time ago, and was only now allowing myself to say.
If you’d like, I can also give you a two-line “bridge” tag that takes her from this bedroom beat into the café with Carl — something like: she dresses with methodical care / she puts on her armour / she refuses to look like a woman who’s been abandoned by a man who wasn’t even worth the term. That kind of controlled pivot is very Sarah. 🫶✨
Notes26-02-06rv1¶
Ist Person ReWrite¶
[26-02-06]
Here’s the more wounded/contained Sarah POV version:
He left like a man who believed the world was fundamentally tidy. Not because it was, but because it was easier to live inside that belief.
His departure wasn’t hurried or sneaky — it wasn’t even unkind. It was simply efficient. The satisfied competence of someone who’d come, done the thing, and now felt pleasantly finished with the evening, like rinsing a cup and setting it on the rack.
I stayed on my back and listened to the small sounds of him collecting himself: the soft thud of shoes near the door, the faint jingle of keys, the brief pause where he considered saying something that might linger.
He didn’t.
The latch clicked.
Silence settled. Not peaceful — not the kind that wraps around you like a blanket — but the other kind. The kind that arrives with a slight draft, as if the room is gently reminding you it has no obligation to be warm.
The ceiling fan rotated lazily through the dark, blades slicing the air that wasn’t moving. The heat still clung to everything, and the faint, bland smell of him sat in the room like an afterthought — soap and deodorant and that particular male certainty that always assumes it’s welcome.
I could have called it fine.
The act itself had been fine. Adequate. Not violent. Not rude. Not even selfish in a way that would make it simple to hate him for it.
That was the problem.
It hadn’t been anything.
No tenderness. No afterglow. No hand finding my waist afterward as if my body was worth remembering. No kiss that said, I liked being near you, instead of thank you, that’ll do.
He’d been happy.
Of course he had.
He’d rolled away, stood up, and immediately resumed being a person with plans. The sort of person who could decide what the rest of his night would look like, as if other people were just… scenery.
And I stayed where I was, staring at the ceiling fan, feeling oddly supervised by it. As if it might start keeping score.
I let out a breath that could have been a laugh if it had wanted to be. It didn’t.
There was a familiar urge to make a joke — to reduce it to something sharp and clever, something that would fit neatly in my mouth and not ask me for anything. But the joke wouldn’t come. Or rather: it came, then dissolved before it reached my lips, like it didn’t want to be used as a bandage again.
Because it wasn’t the sex, really.
The sex was the part I could label. The part you can talk about in concrete terms and then file away.
It was everything around it — the blankness where tenderness should have been. The way he’d left without looking back, not because he meant harm, but because it hadn’t occurred to him that there might be anything worth looking back at.
I rolled onto my side and stared at the patch of sheet he’d left behind. Already cooling. Already less important than his keys.
My fingers flexed once against the fabric, restless. Not longing for him — God, no — just reaching for… something. A sign. A small human weight. A hand that stayed. A word that didn’t feel like a formality.
The room offered nothing.
And in the quiet, uninvited and sharp as lemon, a thought arrived — not dramatic, not even new — just plain and mean in its simplicity:
If that’s the best they can do with a woman who knows her own mind… what do they do to girls who don’t?
My throat tightened.
Not with anger.
With a kind of cold recognition that lived somewhere behind my ribs.
I thought of Celeste — calm, watchful competence, the kind that made men mistake her restraint for softness until she corrected them. And Charli — soft, earnest, heartbreakingly grateful for kindness, as if kindness were a rare currency and he’d been living on scraps.
And I felt the irritation rise — not at him, specifically. He was only a symptom. A sample size of one, with the confidence of a study.
The wider pattern was the thing that made me tired: the way tenderness was treated like a luxury item. The way women were expected to accept “fine” and call it romance. The way a man could take what he wanted and then walk out as if he’d done you a favour by not being awful.
I swallowed. The loneliness sat there, quiet and heavy, like a coat I didn’t remember putting on.
Not a romantic loneliness. Not I want him.
Just the dull ache of wanting to be held without having to earn it. Wanting someone to stay because they liked the person you were, not because your body happened to be available.
I stared at the ceiling fan again. The blades kept turning, steady as a metronome. Time, indifferent. Rhythm, without music.
“No,” I said aloud, to the empty room.
It came out quiet.
It came out like something I’d decided a long time ago, and was only now allowing myself to say.
If you’d like, I can also give you a two-line “bridge” tag that takes her from this bedroom beat into the café with Carl — something like: she dresses with methodical care / she puts on her armour / she refuses to look like a woman who’s been abandoned by a man who wasn’t even worth the term. That kind of controlled pivot is very Sarah. 🫶✨
Notes26-02-06ov¶
Requesting 1st Person¶
[26-02-06]
He left like a man who believed the world was fundamentally in order. His departure was not hurried or sneaky, but it wasn’t tender either: just the satisfied efficiency of someone who’d taken what he came for and now felt pleasantly finished with the evening, like a person putting a glass into the sink after a drink.
Sarah lay on her back and listened to the small sounds of his departure: the soft thud of shoes near the door, the faint jingle of keys, the brief pause as he decided whether to say something meaningful and then—predictably—didn’t.
The latch clicked.
Silence settled over the bedroom in a way that didn’t feel peaceful. It felt… vacant. Like the room had been drained of something it hadn’t been holding much of to begin with.
Sarah stared at the ceiling fan as it rotated lazily through the warm dark. The air was still thick with heat and the faint, bland smell of him—soap and deodorant and that particular male confidence that always seemed to assume it was welcome.
She could have called it “fine.”
The act itself had been fine. Adequate. Not violent, not rude, not even particularly selfish in a way that would be easy to name.
But that was the problem: it hadn’t been anything.
No tenderness. No afterglow. No lingering hand on her waist as if her body was worth remembering. No kiss that said, I liked being near you, instead of I enjoyed what you did for me.
He’d been happy. Of course he had.
Sarah wasn’t even angry at the sex. She was irritated by the emptiness around it—the way he’d risen afterward and resumed being a person with plans, while she remained… a surface the night had happened on.
She let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.
Men were astonishing like that: perfectly capable of taking pleasure and mistaking it for intimacy.
Sarah rolled onto her side and stared at the patch of sheet he’d left behind—already cooling, already irrelevant.
Her fingers flexed once against the fabric, restless.
And in the quiet, uninvited and sharp as lemon, a thought arrived:
If that’s the best they can do with a woman who knows her own mind… what do they do to girls who don’t?
Sarah’s mouth tightened.
She thought of Celeste—of that calm, watchful competence that occasionally slipped into something more dangerous when it was provoked. She thought of Charli—soft, earnest, heartbreakingly grateful for kindness.
And Sarah felt the same irritation rise again, not at the man who’d just left, but at the wider pattern: the way tenderness was treated like an optional extra, the way women were expected to settle for “fine” and call it romance.
“No,” Sarah said aloud, to the empty room.
It came out quiet.
It came out like a promise.
Notes26-02-06ev1¶
¶
[26-02-06]
[ Sarah ]
He left like a man who thought the universe was basically a well-run hotel. Not hurried, not sneaky — just that satisfied, economical exit of someone who’d collected what he came for and now felt pleasantly “done,” like putting a glass in the sink after a drink and expecting applause for it.
I stayed flat on my back and listened to the little noises of him un-being there: shoes thudding near the door, keys giving their smug little jingle, the short pause where he weighed up saying something human and then — predictably — didn’t.
The latch clicked.
And the room didn’t go quiet so much as… hollow.
Vacant. As if someone had opened a drain and let out the last few litres of warmth the place had been pretending to hold.
The ceiling fan turned lazily through the dark, doing its best impression of effort. The air was still thick with heat and the faint, bland smell of him — soap, deodorant, and that particular male confidence that always behaves as if it’s been invited.
I could have called it fine.
The sex itself had been fine. Adequate. Not violent, not rude, not even selfish in a way that would make for a clean story you could tell your friends over coffee.
That was the problem.
It wasn’t anything.
No tenderness. No afterglow. No lingering hand at my waist as if my body was worth remembering. No kiss that said, I liked being near you, instead of thank you for your service.
He’d been happy, of course. Men are often happy when the world does what it’s told.
He’d rolled off, stood up, and instantly resumed being a person with plans. I remained exactly where I was: a surface the night had happened on. Like a countertop you wipe and forget.
I let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.
There’s a trick men pull — not even consciously, half the time. They take pleasure and mistake it for intimacy, like the two are bundled in the same packet and you can’t possibly separate them.
They can. They just don’t bother.
I rolled onto my side and stared at the patch of sheet he’d left behind — already cooling, already irrelevant.
My fingers flexed once against the fabric, restless. Not wanting him. Not wanting more.
Wanting meaning.
And in the quiet, uninvited and sharp as lemon, a thought arrived and sat down like it owned the place:
If that’s the best they can do with a woman who knows her own mind… what do they do to girls who don’t?
My mouth tightened.
I thought of Celeste — calm, watchful, competent; the sort of girl who could smile while she dismantled you. And Charli — soft, earnest, heartbreakingly grateful for kindness, as if kindness were a ration instead of a basic human right.
And the irritation rose again — not even at him, specifically. He was just… a representative sample. A free trial of the wider pattern. The way tenderness was treated like an optional extra. The way women were expected to settle for “fine” and then thank them for the effort.
“No,” I said aloud, to the empty room.
It came out quiet.
It came out like a promise.
If you want, I can give you two alternate Sarah flavours as well:
- More acerbic / funnier (she skewers him a bit harder)
- More wounded-but-contained (same spine, but the loneliness peeks through)
Just say which way you want her dial turned. 💛
Notes26-02-06ev2¶
¶
[26-02-06]
He left like a man who believed the world was fundamentally tidy. Not because it was, but because it was easier to live inside that belief.
His departure wasn’t hurried or sneaky — it wasn’t even unkind. It was simply efficient. The satisfied competence of someone who’d come, done the thing, and now felt pleasantly finished with the evening, like rinsing a cup and setting it on the rack.
I stayed on my back and listened to the small sounds of him collecting himself: the soft thud of shoes near the door, the faint jingle of keys, the brief pause where he considered saying something that might linger.
He didn’t.
The latch clicked.
Silence settled. Not peaceful — not the kind that wraps around you like a blanket — but the other kind. The kind that arrives with a slight draft, as if the room is gently reminding you it has no obligation to be warm.
The ceiling fan rotated lazily through the dark, blades slicing the air that wasn’t moving. The heat still clung to everything, and the faint, bland smell of him sat in the room like an afterthought — soap and deodorant and that particular male certainty that always assumes it’s welcome.
I could have called it fine.
The act itself had been fine. Adequate. Not violent. Not rude. Not even selfish in a way that would make it simple to hate him for it.
That was the problem.
It hadn’t been anything.
No tenderness. No afterglow. No hand finding my waist afterward as if my body was worth remembering. No kiss that said, I liked being near you, instead of thank you, that’ll do.
He’d been happy.
Of course he had.
He’d rolled away, stood up, and immediately resumed being a person with plans. The sort of person who could decide what the rest of his night would look like, as if other people were just… scenery.
And I stayed where I was, staring at the ceiling fan, feeling oddly supervised by it. As if it might start keeping score.
I let out a breath that could have been a laugh if it had wanted to be. It didn’t.
There was a familiar urge to make a joke — to reduce it to something sharp and clever, something that would fit neatly in my mouth and not ask me for anything. But the joke wouldn’t come. Or rather: it came, then dissolved before it reached my lips, like it didn’t want to be used as a bandage again.
Because it wasn’t the sex, really.
The sex was the part I could label. The part you can talk about in concrete terms and then file away.
It was everything around it — the blankness where tenderness should have been. The way he’d left without looking back, not because he meant harm, but because it hadn’t occurred to him that there might be anything worth looking back at.
I rolled onto my side and stared at the patch of sheet he’d left behind. Already cooling. Already less important than his keys.
My fingers flexed once against the fabric, restless. Not longing for him — God, no — just reaching for… something. A sign. A small human weight. A hand that stayed. A word that didn’t feel like a formality.
The room offered nothing.
And in the quiet, uninvited and sharp as lemon, a thought arrived — not dramatic, not even new — just plain and mean in its simplicity:
If that’s the best they can do with a woman who knows her own mind… what do they do to girls who don’t?
My throat tightened.
Not with anger.
With a kind of cold recognition that lived somewhere behind my ribs.
I thought of Celeste — calm, watchful competence, the kind that made men mistake her restraint for softness until she corrected them. And Charli — soft, earnest, heartbreakingly grateful for kindness, as if kindness were a rare currency and he’d been living on scraps.
And I felt the irritation rise — not at him, specifically. He was only a symptom. A sample size of one, with the confidence of a study.
The wider pattern was the thing that made me tired: the way tenderness was treated like a luxury item. The way women were expected to accept “fine” and call it romance. The way a man could take what he wanted and then walk out as if he’d done you a favour by not being awful.
I swallowed. The loneliness sat there, quiet and heavy, like a coat I didn’t remember putting on.
Not a romantic loneliness. Not I want him.
Just the dull ache of wanting to be held without having to earn it. Wanting someone to stay because they liked the person you were, not because your body happened to be available.
I stared at the ceiling fan again. The blades kept turning, steady as a metronome. Time, indifferent. Rhythm, without music.
“No,” I said aloud, to the empty room.
It came out quiet.
It came out like something I’d decided a long time ago, and was only now allowing myself to say.
Published¶
[260212]¶
📱 The Golf Course Call 📱
[ Sarah ]
He left like a man who thought the universe was basically a well-run hotel. Not hurried, not sneaky—just that satisfied, economical exit of someone who’d collected what he came for and now felt pleasantly “done,” like putting a glass in the sink after a drink and expecting applause for it.
I stayed flat on my back and listened to the little noises of him un-being there: shoes thudding near the door, keys giving their smug little jingle, the short pause where he weighed up saying something human and then—predictably—didn’t.
The latch clicked.
And the room didn’t go quiet so much as… hollow.
Vacant.As if someone had opened a drain and let out the last few litres of warmth the place had been pretending to hold. The ceiling fan turned lazily through the dark, doing its best impression of effort. The air was still thick with heat and the faint, bland smell of him—soap, deodorant, and that particular male confidence that always behaves as if it’s been invited.
I could have called it fine.
The sex itself had been fine. Adequate. Not violent, not rude, not even selfish in a way that would make for a clean story you could tell your friends over coffee.
That was the problem.
It wasn’t anything.
No tenderness. No afterglow. No lingering hand at my waist as if my body was worth remembering. No kiss that said, I like being near you, instead of thank you for your service.He’d been happy, of course. Men are often happy when the world does what it’s told. He’d rolled off, stood up, and instantly resumed being a person with plans. I remained exactly where I was: a surface the night had happened on. Like a countertop you wipe and forget.There’s a trick some men pull: not even consciously, half the time. They take pleasure and mistake it for intimacy, like the two are bundled in the same packet and you can’t possibly separate them.
And, I had let myself hope, just a little.
That was on me.
I rolled onto my side and stared at the patch of sheet he’d left behind—already cooling, already irrelevant. My fingers flexed once against the fabric, restless. Not wanting him.
Not wanting more.
Wanting… meaning.
And in the quiet, uninvited and sharp as lemon, a thought arrived and sat down like it owned the place:
If that’s the best they can do with a woman who knows her own mind… what do they do to girls who don’t?
My mouth tightened.
I thought of Celeste—calm, watchful, competent; the sort of girl who could smile while she dismantled you. And Charli—soft, earnest, heartbreakingly grateful for kindness, as if kindness were a ration instead of a basic human right.
And the irritation rose again—not even at him, specifically. He was just… a representative sample. A free trial of the wider pattern. The way tenderness was treated like an optional extra. The way women were expected to settle for “fine” and then thank them for the effort.
I let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.
My phone lay on the bedside table.
I stared at it.
It wasn’t rage that moved me. Rage is messy. Rage implies investment. This was simpler: the quiet certainty of realising I’d been accepting something beneath my standards—and feeling, not shame, but irritation that I’d let it waste even one evening of my life.
I thumbed my contacts, found his name, and tapped.
It rang longer than it should have. Then sound flooded in: wind, men’s laughter, that hollow openness you only got outdoors when men were congratulating themselves for being outside.
“Hey,” he said, voice bright. Pleased with himself. A pause. “You right?”
I closed my eyes for a beat.
“Yep,” I said. “I’m ending this.”
A pause, this time, his. Like the words had reached his ears but couldn’t find a place to land.
“Sorry, what?”
“I’m ending this,” I repeated, confidently calm. “Whatever we were pretending it was.”
His laugh came out wrong—quick, defensive. “Wait, what? Because of… why? Sarah, come on—”
Behind him, someone called his name, muffled by distance.
“Mate, you teeing off or what?”
He lowered his voice, as if privacy would make him sound more reasonable. “Listen, you’re overthinking things. We’re good. We have fun!” Another pause. “Look, don’t do this on the phone.”
I looked at my bare feet on the carpet. The ordinary domesticity of the moment almost amused me. Almost.
“No, this is actually the perfect place to do it,” I said. “You’re with your mates. You’ll recover. Quickly.”
He exhaled hard.“This is insane.”
“No,” I said softly. “What’s insane is you thinking you get to argue about it.”
I heard him moving: steps on grass, the shift of him putting distance between himself and the audience. Wind buffeted the mic. Somewhere behind him, a club clinked against something solid.
“Sarah, seriously—what do you want from me?” he demanded, like I was a faulty appliance he’d been patient with. The question was so revealing I almost thanked him.
“What did I want? Tenderness.” I let the word sit there between us like a dropped glass.
Silence.
Not thoughtful silence. Not I hear you silence. Just… blank. Then he did what men did when they were offered a feeling they couldn’t quantify: he tried to bargain.
“Look, I can be— I mean, I am… look, we can work on that.”
I smiled without humour.
“That,” I said, “is the problem. It’s not a renovation project.”
A small sound: frustration, offence. The first hint he’d expected me to be easier than this.“So you’re just… done?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you liked me.”
“I do,” I said, because it was true in the limited way you liked someone who never made you feel unsafe. “But liking you isn’t the same thing as wanting this. And I don’t date to fill space.”
Another pause. A longer one. I could almost hear his brain searching for the correct lever. Then his voice softened—tactical, not tender.
“We can talk about it tonight.”
“No,” I said, and the word landed like a door closing.
“Sarah… don’t be like that.”
I glanced at the phone as if it had said something stupid.
“Like what?”
“Cold.”
My brow lifted. I heard his breathing now, a little faster. The first crack in his confidence. Not remorse—just the unpleasant realisation that the thing he’d assumed would remain available was, in fact, capable of walking away.
“I’m not cold,” I said. “I’m finished.”
He spoke again. I didn’t listen for meaning. I listened for habit.
Then I hung up.
The quiet after was immediate, like a room after a door clicks shut.
My phone buzzed—missed call. Another. I turned it over, face-down, and went to make coffee.
The magpie outside warbled, pleased with itself.
I smiled.
Done meant done.