Pole Position: Between Logic and Passion

I stared at Arthur’s message for a long time. Just… staring. My phone rested in my hand, screen glowing, the words blurring a little as I read them over and over again.

Oh.

The breath I didn’t know I was holding left my lungs in a quiet, bitter exhale.

He lied.

A knot twisted deep in my stomach—tight and sharp and heavy.

“Everything okay?” his voice cut in, gentle and casual.

I looked up, forcing a smile that didn’t belong to me. “Yeah. Just a text.”

But inside, I wasn’t okay. I wasn’t even close.
Because it wasn’t just the lie. It was that familiar ache of being left out, of being managed, of someone deciding for me what I should or shouldn’t be a part of.

And it hurt. God, it hurt more than I wanted to admit.
Because I thought we were past that.
Because I thought we were… changing.

But apparently not.

Apparently, even when it feels different, it’s still exactly more of the same.

He lied. He still lied.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur. I smiled when I had to, nodded along to conversations I couldn’t hear. My food tasted like paper. Every time Charles reached for me—his hand brushing mine under the table, his voice low in my ear trying to get a reaction—I pretended I didn’t notice.

When the night started winding down, and people were pushing chairs back, stretching and laughing and gathering their things, I stood without a word.

Charles stood too. “Shall we?.”

I didn’t answer. Just grabbed my purse and walked out of the restaurant.

The air outside was cool and sharp, like it knew I needed something to snap me back into myself. I kept walking, fast, like maybe I could outrun the sting in my chest.

“Amy,” he called after me, a little breathless. “Can you just stop for a second?”

I stopped. My heels clicked against the pavement as I came to a halt, but I didn’t turn around. My arms were crossed tightly in front of me before I even realized I was doing it. A stupid kind of armor. Fragile. Useless.

Behind me, I could hear his steps slow as he approached, careful—like I might bolt if he moved too fast.

“I just…” His voice was quieter now. Closer. “Did I do something?”

I closed my eyes. For a second. Just one.

Did he really not know?

“Nope,” I said flatly, my voice stripped of emotion. “You didn’t.”

Which was a lie, of course. Because I was feeling everything and nothing all at once. Like my chest was too tight and too empty at the same time.

“It doesn’t seem that way,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was gentler now, cautious. He was trying to read me, trying to understand.

But I didn’t want to be understood.

I wanted not to care.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, arms still crossed like I could hold myself together if I just stayed still enough.

“Can you just talk to me?” he asked. “Please?”

I looked him straight in the eye, no hesitation this time. “You said you wanted space,” I said, voice low but steady. “I just didn’t realize it was space from me.”