Marcel

Evan’s lips graze mine, soft but persistent, his hand rests on my neck— trying to pull me closer. It’s not that I don't like the way he kisses me. I love it, in fact.

But I'm just not feeling it. Even when we are almost clocking a month together. I can't get into the mood with him, ever.

His fingers trace a line down my arm, trying to get even a wince from me but I have nothing. I stare past him, out through the windshield, at the shadows over the trees lining the quiet parking lot. 

Dinner was great and he thought it would be a good idea to kiss each other in the car, right after a heavy meal of a seafood boil. 

“Marcel?” His hand falls into his lap, concern etched in his face. “What’s going on with you?”

I wonder how he managed to pick that up; his emotional intelligence is terrible.

I glance at him, his hazel eyes searching mine, but the words that should come out—the explanations, the excuses, the stream of reassurances— don’t come.

How do I tell him that I feel like everything is... wrong. Not just this moment, but everything.

I sigh, forcing a smile.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just tired.”

His straight brows furrow, and he reaches for my hand.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. If something’s bothering you, we can talk about it.”

I want to scoff. Since when does he want to talk? Evan doesn't talk, Evan comes up with solutions to anything, as if a perfect strategy can stop me from feeling so empty and useless.

I pull my hand back gently, staring at my nails. “I just need— can you drop me off at the office?”

Evan blinks, the concern deepening in his eyes.

“The office? It’s late. Are you sure you don’t want to go home and rest?”

Normally, I would listen to him because he sells the: sleep is important, part so good.

But tonight, I can't be stuck in my mansion. I need to be somewhere where I won't feel like I'm suffocating —if I keep myself busy at the office, these feelings might fade away.

“No. I need to clear my head. The office is quiet. I’ll be fine.”

Evan doesn’t argue. He knows me well enough to try and convince me otherwise.

The car ride to the office is silent, but it’s not a comfortable silence—it’s thick, loaded, like he’s waiting for me to say something. Anything.

When we pull up to the front of the building, I unbuckle my seatbelt, reaching for the door handle. 

Evan leans over slightly, his voice timid. “Marcel, if you ever want to talk...”

I nod, already stepping out of the car. “Thanks, Evan. I’ll call you later.”

As soon as I close the door behind me, the heaviness in my chest lightens a little. It’s not that I don’t care about him. He’s nice and caring, but there’s something missing—something that leaves me empty when I’m with him and it’s all-consuming.

I push through the revolving doors and into the office building, the echo of my heels bouncing off the floor. My feet have been hurting from wearing them since morning but I have more pressing issues to worry about.

 The building is as I expected—quiet, almost serene. The dim, fluorescent lights hum softly above me. The smell of coffee lingers in the air.

It’s familiar, the kind of environment where I can just exist without having to deal with feelings.

I walk toward my office, my mind not spinning anymore but the frustration still simmering somewhere inside. 

Why can’t I feel anything for Evan?

He is smart, a successful physiotherapist, the kind of guy you bring home to your parents. But I can't bring myself to care about him. Not in the way I should.

I notice something—a faint glow from the corner of the office. The door is slightly ajar, and through the little space, I see Lori.

She is seated at her desk, headphones around her neck and I can hear the loud nonsense even from here.

Her fingers fly across the keyboard like a lunatic, her focus glued to the screen in front of her.

 The awful pink outfit from this morning has been replaced by loose, flowing pants with bizarre patterns woven into the fabric. Over it, she wears a chunky, knitted cardigan that hangs off one shoulder, as though she couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

Her hair, loose and wild, cascades down her back.

My eyes drop to the mess on the floor—two empty disposable coffee cups lay there along with crumpled pieces of paper that didn't make it to the bin.

She looks so... carefree, so messy and so alive.

I slip into the office, not bothering to turn on the lights and sink into my chair with a heavy sigh. The desk feels big and cold.

 I glance over at Lori again, wondering if I should announce my presence or not. She’s still lost in her own world, completely absorbed in whatever she’s working on. She doesn’t even notice I’m here.

Jealousy burns in my chest. Not the kind of jealousy that makes you want what someone else has, no, it’s the kind that eats at you from the inside, making you question why you can’t feel that way too.

Why can’t I be like her?

Why can’t I throw myself into my work and enjoy it instead of constantly searching for approval?

Why can’t I just be?

Lori’s typing speeds up, and she bites her lip in concentration. She seems so effortless, like there's nothing she had to worry about.

I stare at the screen, the blinking pointer laughing at me. I can’t even focus on the simplest tasks anymore without worrying about; will it be good? Will Dad like it?

Every decision feels like a mistake. Every choice feels wrong and Lori is fucking thriving.

I glance at her again, a pang of resentment twisting in my gut.

How does she do it? How does she make being on Dad's good side so easy?

With a frustrated sigh, I clear my throat. That immediately gets her attention because she looks over her shoulder at me. 

“Oh, hey!” Her voice is loud, trying to be heard above the music. 

“What are you doing here?” I mutter with a straight face. 

Lori shrugs. “It's my office too, you know? So, suck it or whatever.”

I swallow.

How dare she?

It's my office and she's only a temporary guests. How can she be disrespectful about it?

“Oh, and I need you to be really quiet,” she says, taking a sip from her coffee. “Kinda working here.”

I only scoff and look back at the computer.

This won't work.

***
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