"Mild Meltdowns, Half-Assed Therapy, and a Flicker That Might Mean Something"

Like any other Monday morning, the first thing I dread is seeing Andy.

Usually, I avoid him until I've had at least two Americanos. It's a silent contract I've made with my nervous system. Today, I'm not afforded the luxury. He's booked me for 8:30 a.m., subject line: Catch Up. No description. No warning. Just vibes.

I saw the invite last night. Opened my email like I always do on Sunday nights — not because I want to, but because my fingers betray me. It's ritual at this point. Tap the app, swipe the inbox, spiral into existential dread.

I knew what it was about.

So I spent the night spiraling. Replaying the conversation. Reanalyzing every syllable Helena said, didn't say, could've meant. How we slid into small talk — safe zones, weather, muted compliments — before I steered things back to business.

"I was thinking maybe we could do a team dinner next week, or the week after," I'd said. "Introduce you to Ann-Katrin properly. And the others."

She'd nodded, already half elsewhere. "Sure. Have your assistant send me a few options."

Vague. Polite. Possibly bullshit. It wasn't a yes so much as a permission slip to let someone else make it go away.

But now, somehow, in Andy's office, I say it like it was a win. Like she was enthusiastic. Like she can't wait to lock us in.

I tell him she's keen to continue the vendor discussion. That the dinner's happening. That she's excited to meet the team. That she mentioned how impressed she was with our pitch. With him.

Yes, I go full propaganda mode. I even say she called him "sharp" — which she didn't. Not even close.

Andy just listens. Doesn't blink. Doesn't nod. Just absorbs the nonsense in real-time while I slowly lose grip on reality.

Then, quietly: "When's the dinner?"

And like someone far too deep in their own bullshit, I answer without hesitation. "We're still locking down the date. She's planning a trip to Copenhagen soon — just finalizing travel."

None of it's true. Not really. But it's not a lie, either. It's a... forward-leaning interpretation of what could happen if the stars align and I somehow figure out how to fix the massive rupture I created in Stockholm. With my mouth. And my idiocy.

Andy just nods. Finally. And moves on to the next point on his agenda.

But I know the clock's ticking. I need Helena to follow through. Or pretend to. Or at the very least, not say otherwise.

I am hanging by the thinnest, most delusional thread.

And I might've just made dinner with my ex the only thing keeping this partnership alive.

I'm screwed.

***

I exhale loudly as I drop into my chair, letting the weight of the morning sink me into the seat. Nick's away at some meeting, which is the only small mercy. It gives me a few minutes to just... sit. Breathe like a functioning human. Try to keep the panic from creeping up my throat.

I have to figure out how to fix this Helena situation. But my brain's a static fog, and I can't come up with a single viable solution before the next item on my calendar flashes aggressively at me.

Weekly planning meeting.

I drag myself through the motions — our usual roundtable of associates and my manager, talking project status, red flags, staffing changes. I nod at all the right times, hope no one notices that my soul's currently buffering.

Apparently, I'm getting a light week. My manager says it like a gift — assigning me to help with the pitch for the Swedish supermarket chain and babysit a couple of juniors on a side project. It's his reward for me living at the office the last two weeks. A break. A breath.

If only my first task wasn't: Ask your ex to dinner. For work. While pretending you're not spiraling.

The moment the meeting ends, I don't even try to act composed. I walk straight to the courtyard, not sure if I'm going to cry, scream, or headbutt the nearest wall. Maybe all three.

I chain-smoke two cigarettes. Down my americano. Stare at the cobblestones like they're supposed to whisper divine wisdom.

Nothing. No tears. No revelations. No cracks in the brick. Just me, more frazzled and caffeinated than before.

I pull out my phone, open a voice memo to Felix, and hit record without thinking. I keep my voice low.

"I'm back from hell. Killed Andy several times in my head. Bring your handcuffs over tonight?"

I don't even bother replaying it. The desperation is probably baked in. I hit send anyway.

If I'm going to lose my job, my dignity, and potentially my sanity — I might as well have one good night before it all goes up in flames.

"Wow, finally located the elusive Freddini," Nick grins as he materializes in front of me.

"Well, it seems my flight mode almost worked its magic," I deadpan.

"It's not even lunchtime. Who are we hiding from?"

I glance over my shoulder like I expect Helena herself to round the corner. "The ghost of my ex, who Andy's trying his best to resurrect."

He blinks. "Wait—what?"

"Helena. My ex. You know, from my Paris meltdown era?" I pause for effect. "Turns out she's the heiress to the Swedish supermarket conglomerate we're pitching."

His eyes go wide. "No."

"Oh yes."

"And now...?"

"I told Andy I'd set up a dinner. In Copenhagen. With her." I stare at him flatly. "Which is obviously not happening."

Nick whistles through his teeth. "So... just a matter of days before you're deskless and someone else is warming your swivel chair."

I sigh. "Yep. Nice knowing you."

He leans against the wall. "Come on, there's got to be a way. Can't you just write to her? Or is there, like... blood in the water?"

"No. Or—well. Not really. Not anymore. I just don't want any of it. The whole thing makes my insides curl. And I can't figure out how to fix it without somehow making it worse."

"What about the Swedish office? Can't August or Ann-Katrin take the lead?"

"Even if they do, I'll still need to talk to her. Face-to-face." I pick at my thumbnail. "And I don't know how to do that without accidentally imploding."

He studies me for a beat. "Unless you're still... emotionally invested?"

I shoot him a look. "No. It's just—" I pause, then shrug. "I don't know."

Silence stretches between us, heavy with the weight of adult consequences and corporate entanglements. Then Nick shifts into his signature problem-solving mode:

"Want a distraction?"

"Yes." My answer is immediate, wide-eyed, eager like a kid promised ice cream.

"Cleanse. Friday?"

"Yes. That is exactly what I need."

***

I postpone any action on the pitch and throw myself into guiding the juniors through the next steps on their project, hoping something useful will bubble up from the back of my mind if I just keep moving.

By the time I leave the office, it feels like I've been holding my breath all day. Every step away from that building is like peeling off something synthetic and too tight—like I've been zipped into the wrong life. My shoulders finally start to retreat from where they've camped out near my ears.

Copenhagen air hits me like a sensory ambush—summer rain, bike grease, and that faint, impossible sweetness of pastry. It's all too real after a day of recycled office air and forced civility. I don't want clarity or rest—I want out. Of work. Of my head. Of this version of me that keeps showing up like a placeholder for someone better.

I never thought I'd set foot in Copenhagen Business School again. Four metro stops away, and still it feels like a ghost town from another life—one I barely made it out of.

It's all still there. The marble echo, the glint of overpriced water bottles, the smug shine of polished loafers. Everyone here looks like they were born sponsored. I walk past them—perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect ease. I didn't have any of that when I was here. My semesters in Paris and Berlin were really the only bubbles of fresh air and freedom. Here, I worked late shifts, skipped lectures, clung to caffeine and luck. Somehow, I graduated. Somehow.

I find the library without thinking. My body remembers what my brain wants to forget. The place still smells like old paper, ambition, and people who actually did the readings. I spot him tucked away between post-structural theory and unflattering lighting. Hunched on a too-small stool, hoodie up, wire-rimmed glasses on—looking like a student-shaped secret.

"I almost didn't recognize you," I say, leaning against a shelf.

He glances up. "It's the glasses, right?"

"It's the posture."

He shrugs. "Statistics chapter. Lots of tiny numbers."

"I know statistics. I just didn't know you did."

He smirks. "Top of my class."

"No. You're not."

"I am. If you ever asked about anything besides my abs, you'd know I'm a catch."

I drop my bag to the floor with a soft thud. "Sorry," I say, stepping closer. "I'm into the glasses. Just not the conversation."

His brow ticks up.

"You said you only had thirty minutes," I remind him.

He closes the laptop without breaking eye contact. It clicks shut—clean punctuation.

"I did."

The tension wraps around us like gravity. No one's back here. Just books and dust and this sudden heat between us that feels like warning signs and poor decisions.

I straddle his lap without asking. His eyes catch the low light, glasses now off and set beside his laptop. He breathes out through parted lips, hands already on my hips like he's remembering something.

His hoodie lifts easily. Underneath, he's lean, familiar, all static and focus. I kiss the base of his throat and feel his pulse skip. My fingers graze the edge of his jaw where tension hums quiet and loaded.

He exhales hard. The chair creaks beneath us. I glance down the corridor of shelves—nothing. Just this stillness, this hum.

His hand slips under my skirt, mapping me like a study guide. Focused. Patient. Testing every reaction. Then—without warning—he lifts me off his lap and spins me around, pushing me against the shelves.

My breath catches. His teeth graze my neck. One hand cups my breast, the other slides lower, fingers circling just enough to make my knees quake. I let out a sound I barely recognize—part moan, part plea—and he covers my mouth with a palm, whispering a teasing, "Shh."

I hear the zipper. The crinkle of foil. No tenderness here. Just need—sharp, fast, consuming. His body moves against mine in rhythm that wipes the rest of the world clean. It's not romantic. It's not safe. It's exactly what I need: a full blackout from everything I don't want to feel.

I clamp down on my hand, trying to muffle it all. He holds me steady, breathing heavier now, until finally—his groan cuts through—low, raw, final.

We're pulling ourselves back together, still catching our breath, when he says, "I'm handing in the thesis on Monday. You free next week?"

I smile—lazy, flushed, weightless. "Yeah. Come over. Bring the glasses."

He laughs under his breath. "I knew you were into them. But no, I mean—you should take me out. Celebrate. Finishing the thesis. The new job."

"Oh." I sit up slightly. "Like... a date? Wait—job?"

"Yeah," he says, too casual for the sudden weight in my chest. "I can't study forever. I need to be part of the real world. Grow up, you know."

I blink. Nod slowly. "Right. I mean... yeah. Let's see, okay?"

I play it off, but something shifts—something cold and wide and echoing. I know how this works. People graduate, grow up, move forward. But somehow I didn't think he would. Not yet. Not like this.

I know he's smart. I do. But I'm not fucking him because of his GPA.

I stand and swing my bag over my shoulder, suddenly aware of the silence between us—how it's grown rigid instead of charged.

"Thanks for the... session," I say with a half-smile I can't quite commit to. I don't wait for a reply.

As I walk out, I can't tell if I'm escaping the risk of being caught or the risk of hearing his five-year plan. Either way, it feels like the end of something—at least the version I understood.

He's about to start working. Full-time. Somewhere serious. Somewhere with company mugs and policy binders and someone named Marianne who alphabetizes their spices and owns laundry baskets for separates. He'll buy a place in the suburbs. He'll go to brunch willingly. He'll fall into something smooth and expected.

Maybe I'll introduce him to my bank lady.

By the time I reach the metro, I'm damp with a cold sweat. The irony doesn't escape me—usually the underground roasts you like a rotisserie chicken. Now, I'm shivering.

I sit down, afraid I'll faint. The lights feel too bright, too fast. I breathe in deep, but nothing fills me.

A dinner might not mean the end of this. I try to convince myself. Maybe he doesn't want more. Maybe he's not expecting anything.

But I know how this goes. Celebrating becomes tradition. Tradition becomes obligation. Obligation becomes expectation. And then suddenly I'm supposed to be sweet, and stable, and excited about shared Google calendars and full weekends.

Things I can't give.

Things I've promised myself I won't even try.

***

The waiting room outside Charlotte's office is completely empty, which makes sense for this god-awful hour. Most mornings, I'm not fully awake. Some days I can't even remember whether I actually went or just dreamed I had.

The terrible waiting-room art usually helps. Mismatched eras, colors that offend on a cellular level. I always imagine her apartment looks just as chaotic—like someone's Pinterest board had a nervous breakdown. Maybe her equally sunshine-injected friends think it's "quirky."
More likely, they just tolerate it because she owns a really nice summer house. Honestly, after six years, I'm pretty sure that summer house is funded exclusively by my parents.

Charlotte opens the door. "Come in."

I sit. She doesn't waste time.

"How are things?"

"I met Helena." The name falls out of me like a swallowed stone, and just like that, my vision goes blurry. The tears are already halfway down my face before I feel them.

Charlotte wordlessly passes me the tissues. She knows not to speak until I can breathe again.

I try to explain: how I hate that Helena's part of my work now, the awkward drinks, how she was right about me being the reason I got sick. I tell her about the breakup, about how none of it makes sense and yet all of it feels like my fault. The words tumble out in knots. I make no sense—exactly how my head feels.

She waits, then: "Do you want to get back together with her?"

I blink, stunned. "No. I mean—she's engaged. And—"

"Are you still in love with her?"

The way she says it makes it clear: this is a yes or no question. No room for grey.

"No," I say. It's the truth.

"Okay. Then by your logic, you wouldn't get sick again, right?"

I open my mouth, close it. "Well—no, but that's not the point."

"What is the point, then?"

"That I'm at fault, I was the one who fucked it up for myself. I was the one who ended things. That I'm the one who made myself sick."

"Bipolar disorder doesn't work like that. You don't 'trigger' it like a fire alarm. It's not cause and effect."

"But I put myself in that situation. I let it happen. That's on me."

"Falling in love is not a reckless decision. It's not something you control."

"Charlotte, this isn't a fucking Disney movie."

She scoffs. I think she's fighting a smile. "What are you feeling right now?"

"Scared. That I screw up again and again. I don't understand why I didn't ask her to come. Scared that I'll ruin the chance of her becoming a client. That I'll have to deal with her, like this, and completely fall apart."

"She's someone you're no longer in love with. Wouldn't that mean you can stay professional?"

"I'm scared it'll all come back. That somehow I'll break myself again."

"Why do you think you didn't ask her to come?"

The question hits me. Hard.

My voice quiet down, and I mutter, "I think, I was just certain she wouldn't" Just to then add in a lighter tone "And I mean, considering the mess I turned into - she probably would have regretted it anyway"

A beat goes by, and it's unsettling. She usually shoots from the hip during our sessions. Then,

"First off, being bipolar does not equal being a mess"

That earns her a raised brow, which she knows by now means are you fucking kidding me? But she ignores it completely,

"Second, this was before you knew of your disorder. Why do you think you didn't ask for what you really wanted?"

I'm struck by a sense of awe, the way she can disguise a single question into a sharp dagger tearing me in half.

I exhale loudly, hold a pause, mostly to see if she lets me pass on this questions. She doesn't.

"It's obvious in a way, after seeing her again. She's an heiress, engaged to someone who plays polo and has a vineyard" I pause, as I realize how complete shit it felt seeing her again, but I go on, "I'm from the sticks - not the capital, I'm dive bar - not ballrooms, the one with the beat up ankle - not the soccer star. "

She let's a beat pass, and I'm apparently not done,

"It's just like, if I try hard, it's just so much worse if I fail. Might as well not get too invested, I guess"

"Have you ever given yourself a try at something you really wanted?"

"Soccer, and looked how that turned out"

"Is there somewhere where you feel like you can do right by yourself?"

"Work. That's why this is so fucked up. I'm scared it'll all come back. That somehow I'll break myself again."

"Back then, you didn't know you had bipolar. Can you think of any tools you've learned since then that could help you manage this differently?"

I roll my eyes, half-hearted at best. I know I've hit some weird new version of rock bottom, because this question actually sounds... interesting. That's how desperate I am — I bet she knows it, too.

"A few," I mutter. "I guess. Actually... it might not be the worst idea you've ever had."

"Frederika," she laughs, mock offended.

Then: "Have you looked at your plans recently?"

My emergency plan. The template. All bipolars are supposed to fill one out in therapy. Warning signs. Patterns. What mania or depression looks like in you, specifically. Then come the mediators: what keeps you safe, what keeps you level.

I know mine by heart:
Twelve-plus hours of sleep. Or four or fewer.
Complete loss of appetite. Or insatiable hunger.
Hyperactivity. Apathy. Rapid-fire thoughts.
Too many tabs open in my brain.

"No. But I know where this is going."

"Do you remember the mediators you listed?"

I sigh. "No alcohol. Eight hours of sleep. Less stress. Less work."

"You're in charge, you know that, right? You get to decide what happens next."

"Yeah, but I don't even know where to start."

"Make a list."

"A shopping list?"

"With deadlines."

"Text Helena, Tuesday 9:15?"

"No, not the action—the goal. What do you want?"

"To not look like a complete screwup."

"Try again. Without insulting yourself."

"I can't. That's the point—I am the problem."

"What would you tell a friend?"

"Text her. Set the dinner. Then cut it off. Limit exposure."

"What does 'limit' mean?"

"Even texting feels too much. Past-me and work-me colliding—it fries my brain. I need clean lines. I like control."

"So... would setting the dinner be enough?"

"Maybe. But I want off the client. I need distance."

"That's a boundary."

"I guess it is. But it feels like failure."

"It's not. You've been through worse. And now you know what to look for."

I nod, barely. "I just need everything to slow down. My brain feels swollen. Like I'm leaking emotions."

"What's underneath that?"

"I'm exhausted. Work and going out keep the thoughts quiet. But when I stop... everything catches up. At home, the silence crushes me."

"What do you do there?"

"Sleep. Or I'm hungover. Usually both. Then I wake up and want out of my head."

"Running again?"

"Yes. And I'm out of breath. I should probably exercise."

She smiles. "Let's start smaller."

"A to-do list for my brain?"

"A towards-list. Not avoiding things—doing what brings you back to yourself."

"So... no hangovers?"

"Do you even enjoy them?"

"No. I barely enjoy going out."

"So what does feel good?"

"Sleeping in. Coffee. Museums. Dramas. Cooking."

"Perfect. Saturday list. Activities in one column, emotional goals in the other. Start with: 'I want to feel rested.' What gets you there?"

"No going out Friday. Pick up good coffee beans. Museum. Phone on mute. Don't talk shit to myself."

"Feasible?"

"If I cancel on Nick. In theory."

"And how would Saturday feel, 11AM?"

"Like climbing mount everest, but also that I was finally doing something right."

"Is that something you want?"

"Yes. I want to be someone my family and friends can believe in."

"Why?"

"Because they love me more than I love myself." My throat closes. "And they want to see me try."

It knocks something loose. I told them I was better. I let them believe it. But I didn't really try.

"The guilt's suffocating," I whisper. "Actually doing it, not just.. saying it, feels... foreign."

Charlotte nods. "Then Saturday is step one."

She pauses. "And until then—stay close to the people who matter. Maybe go easy on the drinking."

It doesn't sound like a rule. Just... an offer. A hand held out.

And maybe, for once, I can take it.

No promises of clarity. But maybe—less noise.

***

Me: Hi Agneta, it was nice seeing you! Once again, congrats on the engagement :) How about we do that dinner in Stockholm soon? Andy's ready to go more or less whenever you have an opening.

I spent all of Tuesday—post-Charlotte—crafting, deleting, and rewriting that message. I feel obligated to commit to the plan we discussed. I don't know if it's guilt or the feeling of being cornered that's driving me. Probably both.

Somewhere between my third coffee and fifth internal spiral, I realize I also have to talk to Marty. I need to officially withdraw from the project—and figure out how the hell to explain it to Andy in a way that doesn't leave me flattened.

It's terrifying. No one steps away from a client this big. Definitely not by choice. Not in this office. Around here, ambition means more—more hours, more money, more wins. Saying "no" is like painting a target on your own back.

But Marty, my manager for two years, is kind. Kind in that low-key, dry-humor kind of way. He's the one who gave me a soft week after Stockholm. The one who always tells me to slow down, even though I rarely do. I vent to him often during our 1-1s, but I almost never take him up on the offers to pull back. This time, I do.

Later that day, Helena replies.

Agneta: Hi darling, thank you! Sure thing. How's next week—Thursday or Friday? Are you coming too?

Darling. The word makes my insides twist. A sign of endearment tossed out like a receipt. She doesn't remember how much I hate pet names, especially ones that feel forced. It reminds me of every fake-nice shopkeeper I ever met in London. At least theirs felt honest.

But I have my list. My plan. And now that I have tentative dates from her, it's time to face the next beast: Andy.

I make my way to his office. He's already mid-conversation with two other client managers, which I secretly appreciate. Witnesses. Distance.

"Slight change of plans," I say, hovering in the doorway. "How's Thursday or Friday next week for dinner with Helena in Stockholm?"

He barely glances at me.

"That should work. Will you book us?"

"Sure," I reply. "I'll handle the restaurant and hotel. When should I book your flights?"

That's when he finally turns to look at me. Really look.

"You're not coming?"

It's subtle—but the shift in tone triggers something in me. I nearly backpedal. I nearly cave, just to avoid disappointing him, just to avoid showing the truth of how tightly wound I actually am.

But I don't.

"I think it's best to keep me in the background," I say evenly. "I think my personal relationship with her has... reached its limit for further professional collaboration. So—without getting into too much detail—I think it's cleaner to carry on without me."

I look down, involuntarily. Hating that it feels like an admission of weakness. I replay every word Marty and I rehearsed.

"I see," Andy says.

I don't know if it's literal or loaded, but I glance up to read his expression. I expect the usual nothing.

Instead—maybe—I see it. The tiniest flicker of concern in his eyes. Barely there. Almost a glitch.

"I'll confirm with Helena after I loop in Ann-Katrin and the team on Friday," he adds. "You handle the logistics."

I nod. Swallow hard. Try to clear the desert my mouth's become. And leave without looking back.

Still not entirely convinced I didn't hallucinate that moment of concern. I really, really need to stop drinking.

***

As I tilt my head to the sky, the nicotine hits—clean and immediate. A flicker of calm runs through me. It's almost stupid how something so small can feel like control. Like I've cleared my heart's browser history, and now I'm free to just... be.

The conversation with Helena had turned mechanical fast. She must've picked up on my polite avoidance, but didn't call me out. That small mercy—the unspoken agreement that I wouldn't attend the dinner—feels like the first actual win I've had all week. And I needed it. Work can go back to being just... work.

Back at the office, Nick doesn't even look up when I walk in. I drop into my chair, lean over, and kick his shin. He groans like I broke something, then glances at me and cracks a grin. Before long, he's laughing—like he can't even pretend to stay annoyed.

"What's so important?" he says, mock-scolding.

"I need to cancel our cleanse."

"What? Why?"

"Big plans. Urgent."

"Felix?"

I hesitate. Nick knows Felix is rarely 'big plans,' though occasionally 'urgent.' My excuse needs work.

"Oh—Amsterdam homework. The case studies," he says, smugly. Clearly remembering how he conned me into doing them.

I had blissfully forgotten about Amsterdam. And the homework. Mine and his. But fine—let's roll with it.

"I almost feel bad about it," He says. "Have you seen the workload? The detail? It's brutal."

I haven't. Still don't want to.

"Well, considering you basically committed academic fraud, I might just bail on your half," I say.

That actually lands. A flicker of real concern crosses his face. Maybe the workload is worse than I thought.

"Yak-sok is yak-sok - and you still have weeks to do it!," he intones solemnly, invoking our sacred oath with full drama.

"I know," I say, equally serious. "I would never dare violate a pact blessed by the holy K-drama gods."

He exhales in exaggerated relief.

I do too—just not for the same reason. Mine's more about the quiet dread creeping back in.

Because the cleanse was never about the 24-hour bender. It was about distraction. And now I've got none.

***

By the time Saturday afternoon rolls around, things feel... surprisingly okay.

The week wasn't a total disaster. Charlotte, annoyingly, was not entirely wrong —coffee beans instead of cocktails helped more than I expected. I even went grocery shopping like an actual person. Tonight's plan? Cooking real food with the company of a new K-drama. Progress.

There's something stabilizing about it. Structure. Focus. A sense of doing something right, and it does feel okay not to straight up lie to my mom every day.

Most of my evenings were swallowed by work, red wine and staying in. Throwing myself at anything work-related, kind of works. It just still feels kind of wrong, like believing I can actually be a person that does all of this.. seem ridiculous. I feel more at home at Sacha's than in my living room on a Friday night, even when I'm exhausted from the week.

Especially since my mind keeps ambushing me.

August shows up when I least expect it. Not just his face—his voice, his laugh, the weight of his gaze. The way he was with his sister. The quiet way he looked at me—open, warm.

Spending time with Richard at the museum earlier should've helped. But it made it worse. I ended up in the French section. Standing in front of the original of the painting August keeps framed on his desk. I hadn't planned on it. I just... stood there. Wondering what it meant to him. Wondering if I should tell him I saw it. Wondering if he'd even care, considering I still haven't replied.

I've ghosted him. Again. And the guilt doesn't fade—it sharpens.

Worse than that—I keep replaying the conversation with his sister. The way I spoke. How I lectured him for being overprotective like I knew anything. I was smug, defensive. He was kind. He didn't deserve that from me.

I start chopping vegetables for dinner. There's something meditative about it—like manual proof that I'm keeping it together. The repetitive sound of the knife, the tidy little piles. It's like power-washing your brain.

And then—somewhere between the carrots and mushrooms—it hits. The urgency. If I don't say something now, I won't. And I want to. I think I actually want to fix this.

Before I can overthink it, I type the first draft and hit send:

Me: Thank you for having my back last weekend. I'm sorry about Sunday. Your sister is amazing, by the way. Sorry again—for everything.

Immediately, I regret the double sorry. Why do I always double down like that? Actually, I should probably also have said sorry for my attempt to drown him in my tears.

August: Who's this?

Okay. Fair.

Me: I deserved that. It's Fred.

August: Fred who?
August: Fredline Silence?
August: Ghosterika?
August: Do Not Fredsturb?

I bark out a laugh. This, I can do, I'm almost bursting with gratitude for the lightness. No sharp edges, just plain old teasing.

Me: It's Apologika.

His dots show up, then disappear, then show up again. He's crafting something. That rhythm tells me he's holding back just enough to be annoying.

August: Ah. I think I know her.

Then my phone rings. Of course it does. Just when I thought I was off the hook.

I stare at the screen like it might change its mind. It doesn't.

"I needed to check you weren't a bot."

"How do you know I'm not?"

"I could FaceTime you."

"Absolutely not."

"Why? What are you doing?"

"I'm cooking."

"...Now I know you're a bot."

"Excuse me?"

"I just can't picture you in an apron, cooking on a Saturday evening."

Okay, fair. Even I'm raising an eyebrow at that mental image. But still.

"Well. Girl's gotta eat."

"Who's the lucky guy?"

"Just me, myself, and I."

FaceTime request pops up.

I answer in panic, and he greets my raised eyebrow with a grin.

That's when I catch myself—black hoodie, Blink-182 in huge purple letters across my chest, hair a total mess, and not a scrap of makeup on. Okay, I hardly ever wear makeup, but now I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. And yes, shorts so short I don't think they will be detectable on screen. Great.

He just smiles like he's seeing something way better than he expected.

"I needed to see it to believe it."

I try to cool my burning cheeks, pulling away from his smile. His screen glows with warm, ambient light—like golden hour decided to move in and pay rent. Wooden cabinets. A hanging plant that's not even a little bit dead. Everything looks effortlessly lived-in.

It's unsettling how right it feels. Cozy without even trying. Like he's built a life and actually remembers to water it.

"Wait—you're cooking?"

"Yeah. Lea's out with friends from school, so I'm having a quiet night in."

"Out with friends, huh?"

"Yup. Someone told me she turned out somewhat okay, even while exploring Dionysus' teachings—despite her older brother's superior knowledge of everything, obviously."

I smirk. "That doesn't sound right."

"I know. Honestly, I'm not entirely convinced you turned out somewhat okay either."

I bite my lower lip, trying not to smile.

"Well, no one should really trust older brothers' wisdom on anything, honestly."

A moment of silence, then he chuckles.

"So yeah, I'm trying to be a patient and trusting sibling. Cooking keeps me busy."

I nod, feeling something like relief in my chest—maybe gratitude that we can joke about this, that he hasn't written me off, that he know somehow the sobbing's not worth bringing up.

"What are you making?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"What I make everyday - Wagyu steak."

"Shut up."

"Ragù."

That earns a genuine groan from me. "Looks way better than the lasagna I'm butchering over here."

"Did you make the pasta sheets yourself?" His voice is suspiciously sincere.

I give him a flat look.

He just grins and lifts a plate of perfectly twirled, homemade pasta nests. Of course.

"You really don't do anything halfway, do you?"

"I just prefer the satisfaction that comes from putting in the work. These nests have basically been years in the making."

"Years?" I raise a brow. "Seems like a lot... for pasta."

"I can't imagine ever going back"

I turn back to my carrots, trying to ignore the mental flash of him making pasta, taking his time, shirtless.

He waits a beat, then slides the knife in:
"Though I guess someone with a taste for restaurant one-nighters wouldn't exactly crave the homemade, slow-cooked kind of meal."

I freeze—just for a second. When I look up, his eyes are still warm, teasing, but there's something else there too. Something quieter. Certain.

"Right," he says, like it's just a casual observation. "Just checking."

And I'm back to the chopping board before my pulse can get any ideas.
"So. Amsterdam, huh?"

He nods. "Client management. You looking forward to it?"

"I mean—homework every night until we leave, so. Define looking forward."

"Thanks for not bringing up the whole Agneta thing," I add, getting a weird feeling of needing to try to mirror his decent humanity.

"Exes are a thing," he shrugs. "Doesn't have to be more or less."

"Its definitely less now - I'm off that account. Did Ann-Katrin tell you?"

"She said you were off the client. Didn't say how things were with your ex."

"We're friendly."

He raises a brow.

"So you are or are not planning on crashing the wedding?"

My stomach knots just by the thought of being in the mere vicinity of her wedding. I force a light tone.

"I'll skip, I think avoiding Sweden altogether is in my best interest."

I look up to read his expression, my subtle jab at him doesn't seem to get to him. Then a smirk forms.

"Well, good thing the best part of Sweden is meeting you in Amsterdam, huh?"

My cheeks betray me instantly. I refocus on the cutting board like it's suddenly become the most delicate operation known to mankind.

"That's... an ambitious claim," I mutter. "Are you always this generous when you compliment yourself?"

He leans back, all smug charm wrapped in soft teasing.
"Only when they're well-sourced."

I risk a glance. His eyes are doing that thing again—warm, amused, knowing.

"Your source was very drunk at the time," I say, sweeping carrot peels into the sink, trying to keep it light.

He pauses—just a breath—then goes for it.
"Drunk words, sober thoughts."

I groan. "I can't believe we're back to this."

He grins. "If you want a sober source, I can think of a maintenance clos—"

I point my knife at the camera. "Don't you dare."

He holds up his hands, laughing. "Fine. Tonight I get a potentially sober, carrot-chopping colleague."

"Correct. Expectations should be adjusted accordingly."

But he's still smiling when I glance up again—like he remembers exactly what I said that night. And worse, like he knows I probably meant every word of it.

Dinner turns into a kind of accidental shared meal. He shows me his ragù, thick and glossy in the warm kitchen light. I confess my lasagna is more of a disaster than dinner, and he doesn't hold back on critiquing my sauce ratios. I mock his too-perfect plating like it's some kind of food art exhibit.

There are plenty of chances to end the call, but I let every single one slide. It feels... easy. Friendly, with just enough distance to keep me from spiraling. He's a lot—too much—when I'm actually near, all sharp edges and heat, but here, behind the screen, I can breathe.

Still, my eyes wander a little too often to his lips, and my cheeks betray me with a soft flush whenever he moves in the kitchen, those subtle flexes of his arms making me forget I'm supposed to be focusing. He's tempting, and thankfully way out of reach.

It's a little weird when we decide to watch a movie, but only for a second or two. I show him my living room and feel a little bare—the green velvet chair slightly worn, a couch that's more cozy idea than reality, stacks of books everywhere threatening to topple, massive paintings taking up more wall space than sense, and a vintage record player in the corner. It's messy, imperfect, but all I need.

Then there's his place. Huge, open-plan—the living room flowing seamlessly into the dining area, bathed in warm light that makes every wooden surface gleam. Records. A skateboard, almost framed. Plush couches that scream comfort, a table set for hosting dinner parties and plants that actually look alive. Somehow, it's both polished and inviting, like he's got every bit of his life together.

Picking a movie turns into a playful back-and-forth, but after much debate, we land on Her - my recommendation - he's never seen it. We hit play on our separate screens, but end up looking at each other more than the movie. We never really stop talking, teasing, paying attention.

All along, August mistakenly perceives the movie as a wonderful love story, I look at it as an ad for AI romances - one that I not-so-hypothetically buy into. Before the movie ends, he falls asleep.

I don't end the call when I notice. I probably should. Instead, I just watch him, taking in every line of his face.

I close the call as soon as I realize what I'm doing.

It's okay.

We're friends.

Friends look.