Ethan. Ethan. Ethan.

His name is pounding in my blood, a mantra in my soul.

Ethan. Ethan. Ethan.

All that work. All those hours and days of trying to move on. All those assurances to myself that I had this, that I could do it. All of it blown out of the water in one fell swoop.

Ethan. Ethan. Ethan.

He’s here, right here in front of me. And despite everything, it’s all I can do not to fall straight into him.

I don’t know what to do, what to say, how to act. There’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to run across the room and throw myself into his lap. To bury my face in his neck and beg him to never let me go. To pretend that the last two weeks never happened and that, somehow, someway, all the pain, all the agony, was nothing but a nightmare gone awry.

But there’s another part—equally as big and equally as important—that wants to run away. Or at least dive behind the nearest chair and not come out until he’s gone. Until he’s no longer looking at me like he saw a ghost.

Or worse.

Of the two choices, the second is definitely the smarter one. Humiliating, yes. Unprofessional, absolutely. But still so much better than standing here remembering what it feels like to be held by him.

To be loved by him.

And yet, even knowing what a terrible idea it is, I can’t stop myself from taking a step toward him, then another and another. In seconds, I’m standing right in front of him, close enough to touch his soft hair and smoothly shaven cheeks. Close enough to register the uneven rise and fall of his chest beneath the navy silk of his shirt. More than close enough to feel his heartbeat if I just reach out and stroke my hands down his chest as I’m longing to do.

“Ethan.” His name is a tortured sound ripped from me, half whisper, half sob, but I can see by the way his eyes narrow and his fists clench that he hears me. Can tell by the way he looks at me that he understands all the things I don’t have the words to say.

He doesn’t react for a long time, doesn’t so much as move a muscle. Then, suddenly, he’s leaning forward in his chair, and I think that he’s going to be the one to do it, to break the oh-so-fragile understanding between us. To touch me the way I’ve been longing to be touched from the moment I left him in that parking lot.

But then his eyes go blank and he’s looking through me like I’m not even here.

Or worse, like I never was.