Let things go
1554 Words
Ella noticed it in the pauses.
Not the obvious ones—Thompson still smiled, still made room for her beside him in meetings, still brushed her hand lightly when he passed her a file. But the warmth lagged, like a second echo that never quite arrived.
He laughed a beat too late.
He stared at nothing when he thought no one was looking.
By the time they locked up their desks for the night, the air between them felt carefully managed.
“You heading out?” she asked, shrugging into her coat.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just… tired.”
She nodded. She didn’t push.
But halfway home, the feeling followed her.
She unlocked her door, dropped her bag, and stared at her phone for a long moment before typing.
Ella: Are you okay?
Ella: You’ve been quiet.
Ella: I can come over if you want.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared.
Then:
Thompson: I’m fine. Promise.
Thompson: You don’t have to.
She exhaled.
Ella: I know I don’t have to.
Ella: I want to.
This time, the pause was longer.
Thompson: …okay.
His apartment was dim when she arrived, city lights bleeding softly through the windows. He opened the door in a worn sweater, hair uncombed, expression lighter the moment he saw her.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she replied, stepping into the warmth.
They didn’t talk right away.
She kicked off her shoes. He took her coat. Familiar motions. Safe ones.
They ended up on the floor with an old console between them—something competitive and ridiculous. Ella mocked his overconfidence. He accused her of cheating. She absolutely did not deny it.
“Unfair advantage,” he said, groaning as her character won again.
“You just don’t know how to lose gracefully.”
“I know exactly how,” he said. “I simply choose not to.”
She laughed—full and unguarded—and for a moment, the heaviness lifted.
They ordered takeout and ate straight from the cartons. He told a story about a disastrous client meeting years ago. She teased him into reenacting it. He did, badly, on purpose.
Her laughter filled the room.
And still.
When she leaned back against the couch, eyes drifting to his profile, she saw it again—that tightness, just beneath the surface.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked softly.
He didn’t look at her. “Yeah.”
A beat.
“Just gala stuff,” he added. “My head’s full.”
She studied him. “You know you don’t have to protect me from everything.”
He turned then, expression gentle but resolute. “I’m not.”
That was the truth.
Just not the whole one.
Ella nodded, accepting the answer he was willing to give.
She rested her head on his shoulder. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
For a little while, that was enough.
Across the city, Jake sat alone in his office.
The lights were off except for the glow of his screen.
Files were open in careful sequence—timestamps, locations, faces half-obscured but unmistakable. Video clips paused at incriminating moments. Messages archived. Patterns highlighted.
He watched one video again.
Then another.
He wasn’t smiling.
He was calm.
Satisfied.
“This will do,” he murmured, dragging the folder into a new directory labeled simply: Gala.
He checked the time.
Soon.
Back at Thompson’s apartment, Ella stood to leave.
“You don’t have to go,” he said.
“I know,” she replied. “But I want you to sleep.”
He walked her to the door, hand resting lightly at her waist.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For coming anyway.”
She smiled. “Always.”
As the door closed behind her, Thompson leaned his forehead against it.
And for the first time, he wondered how much longer he could keep the truth from her.
Jake didn’t summon her immediately.
That was the first move.
Instead, the request came as a calendar invite slipped into her inbox late morning—no subject line, no context. Just Meeting: 3:30 p.m. His office. Private.
Ella stared at it longer than she should have.
Her fingers hovered over the trackpad. She could already feel the faint tightening in her chest—the old reflex, the one that used to brace for tone, for mood, for consequences.
She inhaled once.
Accepted.
Jake’s office was unusually tidy when she arrived.
No scattered papers. No half-empty coffee cups. The blinds were half-drawn, letting in light without exposure. He stood when she entered, smile slow, measured—like he’d been practicing it.
“Ella,” he said softly. “Thank you for coming.”
She nodded, stepping inside. The door closed behind her with a muted click.
He gestured to the chair across from him. She sat.
For a moment, he didn’t speak.
He just looked at her.
Not openly. Not hungrily. With something more curated—nostalgia dressed as affection.
“You look tired,” he said finally.
She didn’t respond.
“You always get like this before big events,” he continued. “You forget to eat. You forget to rest. You pretend you’re fine until your shoulders lock up.”
Her fingers rested calmly in her lap. No fidgeting. No tension.
Jake noticed.
“I used to bring you tea,” he said, smiling faintly. “Remember? You hated coffee back then.”
A beat.
“You still hate it,” he added, watching her closely. “You just drink it now because everyone else does.”
Silence.
He leaned back, sighing softly, like a man remembering something precious.
“We were good once,” he said. “You and me.”
Ella’s gaze drifted—not to him, but to the corner of the room. The plant he never watered. The framed award on the wall, crooked by a fraction.
She said nothing.
Jake leaned forward instead.
“Do you remember the night we stayed late working on the Henderson pitch?” he asked. “You fell asleep on the couch. I covered you with my jacket.”
Her eyes returned to him then.
Still blank.
“You smiled in your sleep,” he added quietly. “You always did when you felt safe.”
He let the word linger.
Safe.
Jake softened his voice, threading it with something almost tender. “I know I hurt you. I know I made mistakes. But what we had—Ella, that doesn’t just disappear.”
She tilted her head slightly.
Not curious.
Assessing.
“I still think about you,” he said. “About us. About how easily you fit into my life. How well you understood me.”
He reached across the desk—not touching her, just close enough to remind her he could.
“We don’t have to make it complicated,” he said. “One last time. Just us. No expectations. No pressure.”
Her eyes flicked to his hand.
Then back to his face.
Jake smiled, encouraged by her stillness.
“After the gala,” he went on, “things will change anyway. You know that. People move on. Positions shift. I don’t want us to leave this unfinished.”
He paused, lowering his voice.
“Don’t you ever miss it?”
The room held its breath.
Ella leaned back in her chair.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
She didn’t cross her arms. Didn’t harden her expression. She just looked at him—really looked.
As if seeing him clearly for the first time.
“No,” she said.
The word landed without drama. Without anger.
Jake blinked.
“I don’t miss the way I used to rehearse conversations before speaking,” she continued, voice even. “I don’t miss shrinking so you could feel taller. I don’t miss wondering which version of you I was getting.”
He straightened. “That’s not fair—”
“I don’t miss loving you,” she finished.
Silence stretched.
Jake laughed once, breathy. “You’re just hurt.”
Ella shook her head gently.
“That’s the thing,” she said. “I’m not.”
She stood, smoothing the front of her jacket. Calm. Unrushed.
“There was a time,” she added, “when this conversation would’ve undone me.”
She met his eyes fully now.
“It doesn’t touch me.”
Jake’s smile faltered—not gone, but strained.
“You don’t mean that.”
She stepped closer to the desk—not to him.
“I do,” she said. “And you know it.”
His jaw tightened.
She turned toward the door.
“Please don’t call me in like this again,” Ella said quietly. “Not for memories. Not for closure. Not for you.”
Her hand closed around the handle.
Behind her, Jake’s voice dropped—low, edged.
“You’re making a mistake.”
Ella paused.
Not turning around.
“I already made one,” she replied. “I don’t repeat them.”
The door closed.
Jake remained seated.
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
Then his expression hardened—not furious.
Resolved.
He reached for his phone.
Opened the folder.
Gala.
“Alright,” he murmured. “If that’s how you want it.”
- Writer
