My phone buzzes with an incoming text when I’m between clients. Swiping the screen, I notice it’s Elle.

Elle: I won’t be able to make it tonight. Bad migraine. Going to bed. Talk tomorrow.

Frowning as I reread the words, I type out a reply.

Me: I’m sorry to hear this. I’ll miss you. Get some rest and know I’ll be thinking of you.

Slipping my phone into my back pocket, I rake my teeth over my lip. This isn’t like Elle. Normally, she would call me - even if it was to say a quick goodnight. Texting is so impersonal; we prefer to hear each other’s voices.

I’m not sure what’s up with her, but I can give her the space she obviously needs. This will give me an opportunity to work on my paintings for the art competition. I’ve been using what little spare time I have to finish them, but there’s still quite a bit to do. Maybe if I pull an all-nighter, I can knock out most of it.

* * *

Elle has been radio silent all day. My texts and calls have gone unanswered. It’s obvious something’s wrong and it’s typical of Elle not to burden me or anyone else with her problems.

By the time the studio closes, I’m chomping at the bit to get over to her place and find out what the fuck is going on.

My fist pounds on the door. I’m frustrated she’s pulling away and worried she’s not going to let me drag her back in. Again, my knuckles knock against the steel. “Elle,” I call her name so she’ll know it’s me.

The door slowly opens and a disheveled version of Elle appears in the space. She squints and blinks indicating she’s just waking up. Her eyes are red and puffy as if she’s been crying.

“Are you okay?” She’s a mess - a hauntingly beautiful mess.

Pushing her hair back from her face, she rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms. “Yeah, I was asleep. Do you want to come in?” She steps back, allowing me to pass, before closing the door. “Have a seat. Do you want something to drink? Water? Beer?”

“No,” I say, catching her hand in mine. Pulling her over to the couch, I tug her down beside me. “What’s going on with you?” I question, turning to face her. Trailing my fingertips down her cheek, I study her face. She’s definitely been crying. I can always tell with her. The redness along her lower lids is a dead giveaway most people might not notice. Small details can turn an average piece of art into something special. Once I learned to see things with an artistic bent, I couldn’t turn it off. I began to notice things I never had before and now I see more than I should or want to.

“Elle, talk to me,” I coax.

Her eyes lower to her lap where her hands fidget, clasping and unclasping. Her chest fills with a deep breath as she inhales. When she exhales her gaze sweeps in my direction. There’s so much turmoil shining in her warm golden eyes. Whatever’s on her mind, I want to take it all away.

“Elle,” I prod.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispers, staring down at her clasped hands.

“Can’t do what?” I question.

“Us.”

Fuck. My heart pitches. I swear it stops and then begins again, erratically beating inside my chest. “What do you mean?” I question, numbly, raking a hand through my hair.

“I can’t be with you anymore.” Her voice cracks.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I raise my voice. “After all we’ve been through, you’re going to back out now?” I shake my head with disgust.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Save it.” I gesture, swiping my fingers across my neck. “Save it for the next sucker who falls for you.”

“Josh, I’m sorry.” Her eyes fill with tears.

I steel myself. I shouldn’t feel sorry for her no matter how much the sight of her crying upsets me. This is her choice. No one’s holding a gun to her head. “Is that all you have to say?” My eyebrows draw together in a scowl.

“I don’t know what to say. I care about you so much, but…” She sniffs, wiping the tears from under her eyes.

“But what?” I throw my hands up in the air. “You either care or you don’t. There’s no but in that equation.”

“I’m not the right person for you.”

“Here we fucking go again. I’ve heard this excuse before. Although it’s a good one; it’s not valid in this case. We’re perfect for each other so don’t spout off some unfounded bullshit to me. I’m not buying it.” Gripping my hair with both hands, I tug on the short strands. This conversation has reached an all-time high level of disappointment. “I’m not sure what’s got you running scared, but I’m going to figure it out. And when I do, I’m coming for you, Elle. I hope you’re ready.”