Two days after Christmas, Bryant Park was a snow-globe scene of forced cheer. The holiday market buzzed with the sound of carols, clinking mugs, and the chatter of last-minute shoppers, but a layer of ice seemed to have formed directly between Derek and me.
We were honouring the pact. Date Eight. But the contract that had once been a lifeline now felt like a ghost between us, its terms fulfilled in spirit but not yet on paper. We had said the real words. I love you. Now, the fake ones wouldn’t come.
We met at the fountain, now dormant and wrapped for winter. He stood there, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, a scarf I didn’t recognise tucked into the collar. He looked up as I approached, and the smile he offered was small and careful. It wasn’t the dazzling, performative grin of
