After a full shift at work and two classes at school, I haul my exhausted body into my apartment, toss my backpack onto the couch and the unopened FedEx envelope onto the counter, and set about making myself a sandwich in my small kitchen.

Of course, in my wildest fantasies, the envelope contains a one-way plane ticket to LA along with a note from Lucas that says, “These past two weeks, I’ve realized I’m lost without you, Abby!” But since life isn’t a fantasy—and, in fact, doles out knuckle sandwiches quite frequently—I’m guessing there’s a better chance pigs will fly than Lucas Ford sending me a declaration of undying love via FedEx. Which is precisely why I’ve been asking myself a certain question all day long on a running loop as that sealed envelope has burned a hole in my backpack. What, if anything, could possibly be inside that envelope that would make me almost as happy as a declaration of undying love from Lucas? And, unfortunately, the only answer I’ve been able to come up with is absolutely nothing.

Let’s say, for instance, Lucas feels like we have unfinished business, thanks to that goodbye kiss I denied him, and, therefore, the envelope contains a roundtrip plane ticket to LA and an invitation for me to visit him for a booty call. Would that scenario make me almost as happy as a happily ever after? No. Not even close. As much as the instant gratification side of my brain loves the idea of getting to have sex with Lucas again, the mature and rational side of it—yes, Mom, it seems I really do have one—knows without a doubt any kind of fuck-buddy situation with Lucas, no matter how thrilling in the short-term, would leave my poor, splintered heart much worse off. So, thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather not subject myself to the eventual agony.

And that’s the misery that awaits me if the envelope contains the fuck-buddy invitation I’m predicting it does. What if it shockingly contains nothing more than a pair of concert tickets and a thank you note from Lucas that says something like, “Thank you for being my muse for those awesome days in Miami!”—but Miami is scratched out, and replaced with—“Denver! Fondly, Luke.” Or, Jesus, what if even that’s too much to hope for and the envelope actually contains a note from Lucas’s “people” that says, “Thank you for being such a devoted fan!” plus a mass-signed photo of Lucas. Gah. It’s the possibility the envelope contains something as impersonal as that that’s kept me from opening it all morning long.

I finish making my food, staring at the harbinger of my doom on my counter the whole time, and finally head to the couch with my plate and laptop.

Once I’m settled on the couch, I quickly navigate to YouTube and click on various videos posted by audience members of Lucas’s LA concert last week. From what I can see from all the different videos, Lucas seems to have performed every single one of his biggest hits that night—which he’s not normally known to do. And even more surprising than that, it’s quite obvious to me Lucas was having an absolute blast that night performing those hits.

I close my laptop, my body electrified. There’s no doubt about it. Lucas is a new man. He’s free. And that makes me ecstatic for him. I’m way, way happier for him, I suddenly realize, than I am sad for myself.

All of a sudden, the weight of the world has lifted off me. Lucas isn’t mine. He belongs to the world. And, damn it, the world needs more amazing Lucas Ford songs! When you look at it like that, it’s far more important for Lucas to feel inspired to make music than for him to have me as a doting girlfriend. In fact, when you look at it like that, I’m acting like a downright fool.

In a sudden burst of resolve, I place my half-eaten plate of food on my coffee table and leap up to grab the envelope off the counter. Whatever Lucas—or his people—sent me via FedEx, I’ll survive my disappointment and eventually move on. I know I will. I got to live an amazing fairytale with Lucas for a few glorious days. I’ll hold that inside my heart and treasure it forever. But now it’s time for me to accept the fairytale simply doesn’t have a happily ever after. At least not for me.

I sit back down on my couch, open the envelope, and reach my trembling hand inside. When I pull it out I’m holding a fistful of confetti scraps covered in tiny print. I look closer and realize the shards of paper are the shredded remnants of Lucas’s non-disclosure agreement.

“Oh, Lucas,” I whisper.

I reach into the envelope again and pull out a folded notecard—and when I open it a folded square of paper flutters out onto my lap. Oh my God, my heart is exploding.

I read the handwriting inside the notecard.

He makes a cute smiley face after that last line.

I read Lucas’s note ten times, not sure if I want to laugh or cry. Would it have killed him to sign off with “Love, Luke”? Or “XO, Luke,” at least? He’ll never forget me…and yet he doesn’t love me. Not even in some nebulous sort of “love you forever, babe!” kind of way? Well, fuck me.

With a dejected sigh, I pick up the folded square of paper in my lap. “Holy shit!” I blurt the second I unfold it. It’s a check made out to me from the account of LDF Enterprises, LLC, for—holy shit—two hundred fifty thousand dollars!

I blink my eyes in rapid succession about a hundred times, disbelieving what they’re telling me, but the zeros on the check remain unchanged. Holy shit! I have to call Lucas to thank him. I have to tell him this is way too much money. That I didn’t do what I did for payment.

I need to tell him I did what I did for him. Because—call me a crazy fan, mentally unhinged, a delusional fool, or diehard believer in fairytales—but, honestly, I love him! I do! I have to tell him all these things and more…

Except…

I suddenly remember I can’t call Lucas because I don’t have his phone number. And, of course, he didn’t include it in his note…because he doesn’t want me to call him.

I rub my forehead. Okay, now I feel slightly mind-fucked, I must admit. The guy gives me two hundred fifty thousand dollars and says he hopes to see me one day, but provides me no means of contacting him to thank him? Does that mean he’s planning to contact me one day? And if so, when? Or does it simply mean he’s letting me down easy. That Lucas Ford the artist is grateful to me for being his muse to the tune of a quarter-million bucks, but Lucas Ford the man is quite comfortable letting fate take the wheel on whether or not our paths will ever cross again?

“Shit,” I whisper to my empty living room, the reality of the situation dawning on me. It’s Door Number Two. I know it is. The man I’d give anything to be with doesn’t want to be with me. The man gave me a proverbial fishing rod and told me to get out there and catch myself a basketful of fish, and added that if I’m successful he’ll perhaps see me on the flip side. One day. Maybe. In New York City. He hopes. But maybe not.

Wow. This is amazing and horrible all at once. I love him and he doesn’t love me. But he thinks I might be worthy of his love…one day. Maybe. And he cares enough about me to help me make myself worthy of him. Maybe.

Crap.

So this is what unrequited love feels like, huh? No wonder there are so many songs written about it. It’s torture.

I’m suddenly overwhelmed with a tidal wave of gratitude, rejection, hope, despair, heartache, excitement, and most of all, love for a generous, talented, and sexy man who cared enough about me to send me a most unbelievable gift. I can’t seem to hold myself upright anymore…so I flop forward onto my couch like the victim of a sniper, smash my face into a pillow, and lose myself to sobs.