Date: April 30, 2025

  When I first started this, I believed it was just data. I thought I could collect, analyze, and categorize emotions like they were patterns waiting to be understood. Today, that belief started to slip.

  Today, I stopped collecting and started feeling.

  Wednesday, 7:45 AM – The Subtle Differences

  The morning unfolded as usual, yet something about me had changed. I was no longer just aware of my surroundings in passing. I was paying attention.

  Leo and Ethan were not simply different in how they worked; they were different in how they existed.

  Leo entered a room and immediately became part of it. He arrived at breakfast half a minute late but drew every bit of attention his way without any effort. He joked with Samantha about her “basic” drink choice, leaned against Eric’s chair while stealing a piece of his toast, and spoke to one of the client engineers as if they had known each other for years. He never seemed to try, never forced anything. He simply belonged.

  Ethan, on the other hand, never merged into a space. He anchored it.

  He had already been seated when I arrived, quietly listening as Hannah went over the schedule, sipping his coffee as if he had been there for an hour. If Leo made himself at home wherever he went, Ethan made spaces adjust around him. I noticed how people unconsciously straightened their posture when they spoke to him. I caught the way they paused slightly longer after his responses, waiting for more.

  Ethan never had to demand attention. He simply existed in a way that made people notice.

  For the first time, I asked myself a question I wasn’t ready to answer.

  Which one would I move for?

  Wednesday, 12:20 PM – Footsteps on the Rooftop

  The meeting room felt too warm, and my head was too full. Before I could overthink it, I grabbed my coat and stepped onto the rooftop for air.

  Of course, because fate never seemed to favor me, Leo was already there.

  He leaned against the railing, sleeves pushed up, fingers tapping idly against his phone. When he heard the door click shut, he glanced up and smirked.

  “Escaping?”

  I sighed. “Taking a break.”

  Leo turned toward me, stretching his arms above his head. “You’re different here.”

  I frowned. “Different how?”

  He studied me for a moment before responding, his tone too casual. “I don’t know. Like you’re trying to figure something out.”

  I hesitated because he wasn’t wrong.

  His gaze flickered briefly to my pocket, and suddenly, I was acutely aware of the hand warmers still inside.

  I exhaled. “I think you’re reading into things.”

  Leo hummed in mild disagreement.

  Then, without thinking, he said it.

  “I think you like me, Spoon Girl.”

  I froze.

  The atmosphere shifted.

  The teasing glint in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something quieter and more certain.

  “I think you like me,” he repeated, this time softer. “And I’d like it if you did.”

  My breath caught.

  He wasn’t joking.

  Not this time.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  My heart pounded against my ribs. I knew I should respond, laugh it off, tell him he was being ridiculous—but I didn’t.

  Because, for the first time, I wasn’t sure if he was wrong.

  Leo’s fingers twitched slightly against the railing, like he was waiting. He was waiting for me to say something, to confirm it, to give him an answer.

  Then, before I could speak, I saw it.

  A flicker of hesitation in his expression. The realization that he had said too much before I had even reacted.

  And just like that, he covered it up.

  Leo let out a sharp laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. It was too loud, too forced. “Or, you know,” he added, his smirk sliding back into place, “maybe I just like watching you look at me.”

  I blinked.

  It took me a second to process the shift—the backtrack, the way he had thrown out something real and then immediately retreated.

  And then, the sting set in.

  Of course, this was how it had to go.

  Leo always took a step forward, only to take three steps back.

  He always leaned in just close enough before pulling away.

  Maybe that was the problem.

  Leo was only interested in the game until it became real.

  I swallowed and pushed everything down before responding in a steady voice.

  “Right.”

  I turned before he could say anything else.

  And I didn’t look back.

  Wednesday, 2:00 PM – The Art of Avoidance

  Client Office – Post-Lunch

  I avoided Leo for the rest of the afternoon. It wasn’t dramatic or obvious, just enough that my conversations remained clipped and my attention remained fixed on my work. I made sure I was never alone in the same space with him again.

  If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.

  That was the thing about Leo. He played his cards when he knew he could win. Today, he had already lost too much ground.

  I threw myself into code reviews, last-minute tweaks, and double-checking every line of our latest model like it was the most important thing in the world. Sometimes, a work trip wasn’t about sightseeing or company dinners or drinks with clients. Sometimes, it was just work.

  Fluorescent lights. Convenience store food for dinner.

  And honestly, that was exactly what I needed.

  At least Japan had the best convenience store food in the world.

  At least work didn’t make my stomach twist the way everything else did today.

  Wednesday, 9:45 PM – The Cracks in the Armor

  The Tokyo office was nearly empty, the low hum of vending machines the only real sound in the space. Overhead lights cast a dim glow over the long conference table, illuminating empty coffee cups and scattered notes. Ethan and I were the only ones left.

  He sat beside me, sleeves rolled up, fingers resting idly against his laptop. His work was finished, of course it was. Ethan always worked with precision, finishing before anyone else. Meanwhile, I stared at my screen, rereading the same line of data for the third time, trying to force my brain to cooperate, trying to focus on anything other than the dull ache pressing into my chest.

  I thought I had been doing a good job of keeping it together.

  Then Ethan spoke.

  “You’re not focused.”

  My fingers tightened around my mouse. “Excuse me?”

  He didn’t react to my tone. He just studied me, his gaze sharp, assessing, like he was pinpointing the exact moment I had started to unravel.

  “You’ve been off all day,” he said simply.

  I scoffed, shaking my head. “Wow, thanks, Ethan. Maybe I’m just tired.”

  He exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “You’re tired. But that’s not it.”

  I let out a sharp breath, my patience thinning. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

  Ethan didn’t take the bait.

  He tilted his head slightly, eyes flickering over my face, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I get it.”

  Something about the way he said it made me pause. I frowned. “What?”

  He looked away, and for the first time, I saw it—hesitation. It was small, barely there, but I caught it before he buried it beneath his usual composure.

  “He gets to you.”

  My stomach twisted.

  Not because he was wrong.

  But because he wasn’t.

  And because hearing it out loud—from him—made something clench uncomfortably inside me.

  I pressed my lips together. “Ethan—”

  He exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. He looked composed as always, but something in him felt weighed down, like he had been carrying this thought all day and had finally decided to let it slip. He already knew the answer, and he hated it.

  I swallowed, trying to find my voice. “I don’t—”

  But I didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

  Ethan leaned forward, elbows resting against his knees, his gaze still searching, still careful. He looked like he wanted to say something else. “I don’t—”

  Then he stopped.

  He cut himself off before the thought could form.

  I waited, but all he did was exhale. His hand dragged down his face before settling against his knee.

  “I don’t know how to make you feel better.”

  Something inside me cracked.

  It wasn’t just the words.

  It was the way he said them—steady, honest, a little lost.

  Ethan always had answers. He always knew what to do. But this time, he didn’t.

  And somehow, that was what did it.

  That was what made my chest tighten.

  Leo had so many of my feelings, but he had been careless with them. Ethan had so few, but he was trying so much harder to take care of them.

  And suddenly, I wasn’t just tired.

  I was overwhelmed.

  A lump rose in my throat before I could stop it, my vision blurring at the edges. I bit the inside of my cheek, tried to push it down, tried to will away the heat behind my eyes, but it was already happening. One wayward tear slipped down my cheek. Then another.

  I inhaled sharply, blinking fast, desperate to get myself under control.

  I was not going to cry over this.

  Not over him. Not over any of this.

  I sniffed once, barely audible.

  But Ethan noticed.

  Of course, he did.

  His body shifted beside me, but he didn’t move closer or pull away.

  He just waited.

  He wasn’t expecting me to stop.

  He wasn’t expecting me to pretend.

  My voice came out small. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Ethan inhaled softly.

  Then, hesitantly, like he was weighing the decision as he made it, he reached out.

  His fingers brushed against my cheek, catching the tear before it could fall any further.

  I froze.

  His thumb rested against my skin, warm and deliberate. He didn’t rush, didn’t pull away.

  His touch lingered.

  I blinked up at him, barely breathing.

  And when our eyes met, his hand stilled.

  I saw it.

  The moment he hesitated.

  The flicker of restraint tightening his jaw, the subtle clench of his fingers like he was stopping himself from something reckless.

  His gaze flickered downward—to my lips—before snapping back up.

  A slow inhale. A slow exhale.

  Then, just as quickly as he had touched me, he pulled back.

  The warmth disappeared.

  Ethan leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand against his jeans as if he needed to erase the memory of it.

  And I—

  I wasn’t ready for him to let go.

  I hated that he had.

  For one reckless second, I almost reached for him.

  But Ethan was already leaning away, putting distance between us before I could close it. His expression was carefully neutral, as if he hadn’t just been caught in something neither of us were ready for.

  As if he hadn’t just looked at me like that.

  I forced a weak laugh, breaking the silence. “You’re really—” I exhaled, pressing my palm to my forehead. “God, you’re so annoying.”

  Ethan let out a slow, low chuckle. “I know.”

  The quiet stretched between us, heavy and unresolved.

  I wanted to say something.

  I wanted to acknowledge whatever had just happened.

  But before I could, Ethan shifted. His voice was softer now, not teasing, not pushing.

  “Ada.”

  I swallowed. “Yeah?”

  His gaze lingered, slow and searching.

  Then, finally, he shook his head.

  “Get some rest.”

  I hesitated, but he didn’t say anything else. He rolled his shoulders, grabbed his laptop, and pushed back from the table.

  He didn’t look back.

  And I sat there, staring at the empty space he had left behind.

  For the first time all night, I felt it—the sinking, undeniable realization.

  I didn’t just want Ethan to stay.

  I wanted him to not give me the choice.