Marcel

The cold night air bites at my skin as I step out of Lori's apartment building, my breath fogging in the chill.

I don’t know where I’m going—just that I need to get as far away from her as possible.

My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the faint hum of traffic and the muffled sounds of life around me.

My hands tremble, not from the cold, but from the electric storm raging inside me.

I don’t even feel my legs moving, but they carry me down the street, past dimly lit storefronts and shuttered cafes.

My chest is tight, every breath clawing its way out like I’ve been holding it in for hours. My mind replays the scene over and over—Julian in her bed, that smug, condescending smirk.

Lori standing there, fumbling for excuses, her voice brittle and unsure.

I trusted her.

No, that’s not true. I wanted to trust her. I wanted to believe that we could figure this out, that whatever we were—whatever this fragile, messy thing between us was—it meant something to her.

But seeing him there, lounging like he belonged, shattered every fragile hope I had.

A lump rises in my throat, hot and heavy, and I blink hard, refusing to let the tears spill.

Crying isn’t going to fix this. It’s not going to undo what I saw or take back the way she looked at me, like I was the one causing all this.

I stop at the corner of an empty street. I lean against the lamppost, my hands gripping it like it might hold me together. But it doesn’t. Nothing does.

I should have known better.

From the moment Lori came back into my life, I’ve been walking a tightrope, teetering between wanting her and knowing she’s chaos incarnate.

She’s always been reckless, unpredictable, selfish in a way that draws you in and leaves you gasping for air. And I let myself fall for her anyway, knowing she could destroy me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, tilting my head back and breathing in the icy air. It does little to clear the ache in my chest.

I can still see her face, her eyes pleading with me to understand, to forgive her, even as her words stumbled over half-truths and excuses.

"You think I wanted this? I just… don’t know how to be the person you want me to be."

Her voice rings in my head, and it makes me want to scream. I never asked her to be anyone but herself.

All I wanted was for her to try. Try to care enough to be patient with me. But instead, she ran back to the one person who’s only ever hurt her.

Why does she keep doing this to herself?

A car honks in the distance, startling me out of my thoughts. I glance around, realizing I’ve wandered further than I thought. The streets here are quieter, lined with old brick building.

I take another shaky breath and shove my hands into the pockets of my coat.

I could go home. Crawl into bed and let this night drown in the dark but the thought of being alone right now feels unbearable.

Instead, I fish my phone out of my pocket, my fingers fumbling against the cold screen. I hesitate, staring at my contacts list. My thumb hovers over Evan’s name before I quickly swipe past it.

No. Calling Evan would be the worst thing I could do right now. He’s nice—too nice—and I’d only end up hurting him again.

I scroll aimlessly until my finger lands on a different name. Michel.

I press the call button.

He picks up on the third ring.

“Marcel? It’s late. What’s wrong?” his voice is warm, steady, and just familiar enough to make me feel like I can breathe again.

“I…” My voice cracks, and I swallow, gripping the phone harder. “Are you busy?”

“No,” he says immediately, concern lacing his tone. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” the words tumble out in a rush. “I just… I need someone right now. Can I come over?”

“Of course,” he says without hesitation. “I’ll put on some tea.”

I murmur a quiet thank you and hang up, shoving the phone back into my pocket. The knot in my chest loosens just a little, knowing I won’t have to face this night alone.

When I reach his building, he’s already buzzing me in before I can even press the call button. I take the stairs two at a time, my pulse still hammering as I reach his door.

He eyes scan me with immediate concern when I walk through the door. “You look like hell,” he says, stepping aside to let me in.

“Feels like it,” I mutter, slipping out of my coat and draping it over the back of a chair.

Michel doesn’t press me for details. He just gestures to the couch and disappears into the kitchen. A moment later, he’s back with two mugs of tea, his movements calm, like he’s giving me space to breathe.

I take the mug, letting the heat seep into my cold fingers. For a while, neither of us says anything.

“You want to talk about it?” Michel finally asks. His voice is low, steady.

I stare at the tea in my hands, watching the steam curl and rise.

“Lori,” I utter.

He doesn’t flinch or look surprised. He just waits.

“She’s still caught up with her ex,” I continue, bitterness edging my words. “Julian. I walked in, and he was there. In her bed. And she… she just stood there, fumbling for some excuse.”

Michel leans back, but his eyes stay on me. “You think she’s trying to hurt you?”

“No,” I say too quickly. The words feel automatic. “Lori is not like that. I think she’s just… stuck. Broken. And I keep thinking if I try hard enough to care about her, she’ll get unstuck, but that’s not how it works. Is it?”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not. And it’s not on you to fix her.”

I swallow hard, the words hitting me square in the chest. “I feel like an idiot,” I admit, voice barely holding. “I knew who she was this fireball and I still let her get to me.”

“Marcel, you’re not an idiot,” he says firmly. “You saw something in her worth caring about. That doesn’t make you dumb. It makes you human.”

I notice how we are dancing around the L-word, but that's another problem for another say. I don't know what I feel for Lori and I don't know when I'm going to figure it out but all I know is I care about her.

And seeing Julian there with her did something to me that I never thought was possible.

I look at him, searching for some kind of argument, but I can’t find one. Instead, I let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel very smart right now.”

“Doesn’t have to make sense. Doesn’t have to feel good. But you’re allowed to feel it.”

His words crack me open, and before I can stop it, the tears come—hot, unstoppable. I hate crying like this, but Michel doesn’t say a word. He just sits there, letting me get it all out.

When the sobs finally ease, I wipe at my face, embarrassed.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t —”

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “Don’t apologize for feeling. You’re allowed to do that. It's okay.”

I nod, staring down at the now-cold tea in my hands. “I just… I thought…”

I trail off because there are no words to say anymore. None of it matter.

She had a choice and she chose him. A wrong decision but it's hers and nothing I do will ever change that.

“Thank you,” I manage, lifting my head.

“Anytime,” he replies, his mouth curving into a faint smile. “But, Marcel, you deserve better than this.”

I nod again even when I don't understand what that means.

He is probably right. Maybe it’s time to stop hoping for something that isn’t there.

Maybe it’s time to let go.