My heart is breaking into a million pieces. It takes all the power within my body to hold back my tears. After we get out of the car, Gatsby walks me to the plane. I want to go by myself. I want him to leave so that I can cry in peace. But I say nothing.

There’s a moment when I think our hands will touch. My body pulls for him as if he were a magnet. I am about to run my fingertips over his hand. But he grabs the railing.

“What, you don’t think I can make it into the plane by myself?” I am angry. I’m not afraid to show it.

“I need to tell the pilot where you’re going,” he says nonchalantly.

Coldness is emanating from him. I hate this side of him. I hate all of him.

I drop my bag on the floor and take a seat. Less than twenty-four hours ago, we were both in this exact seat doing something else completely. I look out at the runaway at the empty pavement. He’s talking to the pilot, but I feel as if I’m all alone. As if no other soul exists in the world.

Gatsby walks towards me and sits in the recliner opposite from me. He looks me straight in the eyes. Sadness and disillusionment looking back at me.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I’m sorry for raising my voice. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry for getting so mad. But most of all, I’m sorry that you’re leaving.”

Ask me to stay! Ask me to stay!

“I’m sorry too,” I say. “For everything.”

I want him to touch me. If we were just to touch again, everything would go back to normal. The chemistry between us would take over. But I can’t move. Something is holding me back. It’s as if my body is stuck to the seat. When I finally break free, he’s already walking down the runway.

Run out there after him! I scream to myself. Go! What’s stopping you? Don’t think. Just act!

But I remain motionless. My mind and my heart are fighting an epic battle within me, leaving me completely powerless.

Suddenly, I start to choke. Big fat tears start rolling down my face. I can’t catch my breath. My throat closes in. I gasp for air, but no air enters.

My sobs are so loud. They echo off the walls of the plane. I bury my head in my knees and rock from side to side.

I cry for everything that I have lost. I cry for losing what we had and for what we could’ve had.

Regret is a dark storm cloud that swirls around me, turning everything black.

Slowly, my thick, all-consuming sobs turn into a stream of tears. My pangs of regret over Gatsby morph into other regrets.

I regret never telling him about my sisters and how much I love them despite everything that has happened.

I regret not telling him about my mother’s death and how much her passing affected me.

I regret not telling him how alone I feel all the time and how retreating into nature actually makes me feel less alone than when I’m with people.

I regret not telling him about my father leaving when I was young and how I act like it’s nothing, like everyone goes through that, and yet I hate him for it.

But mostly, I regret all of these regrets.

If only I knew that we would have so little time together, then I would’ve spent more of it being who I am. Showing him who I really am. The good, the bad, the ugly. It’s not like I want to show him the bad and the ugly, I just wish that he knew the deepest parts of me. Maybe then he would see me as…no, maybe then he would just see me for me.

I am more than his personal assistant. I am more than this girl with whom he has amazing sexual chemistry. I am layered, dimensional, and complicated. And now, all those parts of me seem lost or gone.

---

When the plane starts to taxi down the runway, the constant flow of tears slows down to a trickle. But then the plane stops. I look out the window.

Is it Gatsby? Is he stopping the plane so that he can get on and reverse this whole, horrible thing?

The plane makes its way back to the beginning of the runway.

My hopes soar.

Why would we be going back were it not for Gatsby? I didn’t ask them to return. It has to be him!

I wait anxiously for the door to open.

My heart feels like it’s about to jump out of my chest. I’ve wiped my tears. I am ready to run into his arms. The doors finally open.

A beautiful, poised young woman walks in. My head starts to spin. I wait for Gatsby to follow her inside, but he’s not there. Stacey closes the door, and the woman walks towards me.

She looks about Gatsby’s age, late twenties. Her short, black hair makes her look like that actress from the 30s. She’s smoking an e-cigarette and carrying a Birkin bag on her arm.

“Oh my God, sweetie, what’s wrong?” she plops down right next to me and puts her arm around my shoulder.

I shake my head. I don’t know what’s going on. Where’s Gatsby? Who is she?

“Nothing,” I mumble. I’m so embarrassed.

My face feels puffy, and my jeans are wet from when I buried my face in my lap. My hair is a total mess.

I don’t even dare think about how bloodshot and awful my eyes must look right now. Or how black my cheeks are from all the smeared mascara. I just want to pull the hoodie over my head and hide. But I can’t.

“No, seriously, I want to know. What happened?” she insists.

How can she be this perfect? Each strand of her hair lays neatly in place. Her lips shimmer in the light, and her manicured nails are painted blood red.

I don’t know her, but something about her looks familiar. I have seen those eyes before. Almond shaped and inquisitive. And her lips are turned up just a little at the corners. A straight, pointy nose completes the look. If she were animated, she would be a fairy.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” I say clearing my throat.

My voice comes in more powerful this time. I’m not mumbling. I wipe the rest of my tears away with the back of my hand.

“Oh, of course! I’m terribly sorry. I’m O.” O extends her hand. We shake hands, and I am keenly aware of how cold my hand is. It’s as if it belongs to a dead person!

“O? Is that short for something?”

“Yep, O like the letter. Ophelia.”

Ophelia. What a beautiful name! What a tragic character! Definitely more tragic than I am, I think to myself. I’m not tragic, just pathetic.

“So are you going to tell me which one of my brothers did this to you or what?” O looks me straight in the eye. I’m taken aback. So that’s why she looks so familiar!

“I’d rather not say.”

“Oh, c’mon, please.” She bounces up and down and grabs my hand. Her pale face and severe hair cut are a complete mismatch to how warm and kind she comes off.

“All three of them are assholes. I just want to know which one you fell for.”

“Gatsby,” I whisper, embarrassed. I shake my head.

“But it’s not like he did this to me.” I’m trying to gain some of my dignity back, but all efforts are in vain. “It just happened.”

It. What was it that happened? I can’t call it a breakup, we were just on our first date! But something did happen, and that’s why I’m now sitting on his private plane all alone. Well, not all alone.