Marcel

Sunday mornings should be peaceful—a chance to reset, unwind, and let your mind wander anywhere but into dangerous territory.

For me, though, this Sunday is anything but. I’m on my couch, arms crossed, sulking. Not that I’d admit it if someone asked.

No, I’d say I’m relaxing. But I’m not fooling anyone. Least of all myself.

The truth is, I never called Lori last night, not even a text—despite her making it crystal clear that's exactly what she wanted.

"So I know you got home safe," her voice rings in my head.

At first, I kept telling myself I'd get to it later. I had my reasons, or at least that's what I told myself. Just another excuse. But then, as the night wore on all I could think of was her stupidly casual comment about going home with someone else and that shit just pissed me off.

Her offhandedly saying it like it was nothing—just another random detail about her evening.

That's when I knew I wasn't going to reach out.

Not now.

Maybe not ever to be honest because calling a spade, a spade, her silky little goodbye cut deeper than I imagined. It kind of made me realize how little I actually matter to her.

Not that I want to, I just thought things would feel different even for her.

Anyway, I did nothing. Just sat there, phone untouched, her request hanging, half-forgotten, half-ignored.

She probably is wondering why I'm so silent. Maybe she is trying to figure out what could be going in in my head. I know she didn’t mean  to—or maybe she did.

Either way, it stung, and now I’m sitting here feeling nothing but misery.

Mom would unbirth me if she saw this crap.

The doorbell rings.

Great. Now I have to get up and walk.

I drag myself to the door, expecting a neighbor or maybe someone delivering something I forgot I ordered, instead, it’s Michel.

Of course, it’s Michel. He stands there in his oil-stained hoodie, looking like he just walked out of the auto shop he practically lives in.

“You look like hell,” he says, smirking as he steps inside without waiting for an invitation.

“Good to see you too,” I mutter, closing the door behind him.

Michel makes a beeline for the kitchen like he owns the place, yanking open the fridge door and leaning in.

“Seriously, Marcel, do you ever buy groceries? You’re running on caffeine and frozen meals at this point.”

“Don’t act like you’re above it,” I snap, though there’s no real venom in my voice. Just weakness and exhaustion.

He rummages until he finds leftover Chinese takeout. Without even asking, he pulls it out, heats it up, and flops onto the couch across from me, his long legs stretching out as he digs in.

People would wonder why I'm fri8eith this douche.

“You’re sulking,” he says around a mouthful of noodles.

Gross...

“I’m not.”

“You’re definitely sulking.”

I roll my eyes and toss a pillow at him. He ducks, laughing as he sets the food container down.

“What’s going on? Did your dad die? Someone key your car?”

I scowl, refusing to take the bait.

Michel narrows his eyes, leaning forward. “Matters of the heart, aren't they?”

I groan, sinking deeper into the couch cushions.

“I knew it!” He looks far too pleased with himself. “Who are they? What did they do? Or, better yet, what didn’t they do?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I insist, but the heat in my cheeks betrays me.

“Oh, there’s definitely something. Go on, pour the tea.”

He doesn’t stop pestering me until I finally give in.

“There’s this woman,” I say slowly. “She’s… infuriating. And fascinating. And so damn confusing.”

Michel grins. “You’ve got it bad.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Sure it isn’t.”

I glare at him, but he just keeps chewing loudly, completely unfazed.

“She gets under my skin,” I admit after a moment. “But I don’t want her to stop. It’s maddening to say the least.”

Michel sets his food down again and leans back, folding his arms.

“So, let me guess: you’re into her, but you’re terrified she doesn’t feel the same way?”

I want to say yes but that feels too pathetic.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It never is.”

I run a hand through my hair, frustrated.

“I don’t even know what I want. Do I want her to feel the same way, or am I just pissed that she didn’t pick me last night?”

Michel whistles low. “Ouch. That’s rough.”

“I hate you,” I mutter.

“No, you don’t.” He grins again. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” I say firmly.

He raises an eyebrow. “Really? You’re just going to sit here and stew in your feelings?”

“Yes.”

“Pathetic.”

I chuck a second pillow at him, and this time he doesn’t dodge. It hits him square in the chest, and he bursts out chuckling.

“Should I go or stay?” he asks when he is done laughing.

I shake my head, getting up and heading for the fridge. I grab two beers, handing one to him as I sit back down.

“To messy feelings and impending heartbreaks,” he says, holding up his bottle.

I roll my eyes but clink mine against his.

I'm definitely drinking to that.

We sit in silence after that, the kind of silence that only comes with years of friendship. Michel doesn’t push any further, and I’m grateful.

His presence is like armour even if my thoughts spiral back to Lori.

Her laugh. Her touch. Her smile...

I take another sip of the beer, trying to quiet my mind.

It doesn’t work.

“You know,” Michel says after a while, “you don’t have to figure it all out right now. Sometimes it’s okay to just fuck up and… let things be messy for a bit.”

I glance at him. Since when did he get wise?

“Don’t look so shocked,” he adds, smirking. “I’m full of surprises.”

I snort, taking another sip.

Michel doesn’t say anything else, and I’m happy.

Sometimes you just need someone to sit with you, no questions, no conversation—just quiet understanding.

My eyes glance at my phone. She hasn't called either to check up on me. She is probably still in bed with that woman, cozying up to each other while kissing and ...

Fuck you, Lorian. Now my day is all ruined.