Chapter 353: Personal Problem 2

NICK

I opened it far too quickly for a man who claimed to be completely detached from the situation.

The image attached to the text took a fraction of a second to load, and when it did, I found myself staring at the screen in total, profound bewilderment.

It was a plushie. An enormous, stuffed object shaped unmistakably like a dildo. It had a pair of furious, dark eyebrows embroidered onto the front, complete with a tiny, tightly stitched frowning mouth that looked incredibly angry at the world.

Underneath the picture, a single line of text appeared: saw this at a shop today.

Reminded me of you.

I stared at the image for a length of time that could not be justified by the simplicity of the message. My brain attempted to process the image:

This is a plushie. It is shaped like a phallus. It has a face that looks thoroughly grumpy.

This object reminded him of me. This is the exact mental image I evoke in his mind. A grumpy, phallic, stuffed toy.

Three distinct emotions arrived in immediate succession. First came a profound, deep confusion at how his mind operated.

Second was a sharp spike of irritation that this was the first sign of life after seven days of total abandonment.

Third, beneath everything else, was a helpless, quiet warmth that rose in my chest... a sensation I firmly refused to give a name to.

My thumbs moved across the keyboard, deleting two defensive responses before settling on something flat and non-committal: I don’t know how to feel about that.

I hit send before I could overthink the syntax. The three little dots appeared almost instantly on the screen.

Cyan: you should feel honored. It’s very rare that something captures your specific energy this perfectly.

Nick: My specific energy. Being a grumpy phallic object.

Cyan: exactly. Also it reminded me of the rooftop. Specifically the part where I could feel

I read the text in real time, my eyes tracking the words just as the final part of the thought broke through the network.

Cyan: exactly how affected you were by the kiss.

The reaction from my own system was an absolute betrayal. The heat arrived all at once, a sudden, intense flush that rushed up my neck, flooded my cheeks, and turned the tips of my ears bright red.

It was the full-body heat of a man who had been called out with perfect, undeniable accuracy in writing.

I tried to compose a sharp, dignified response, but my thumbs were suddenly clumsy against the glass.

Every sentence I formed looked like the frantic defense of a high school student with an embarrassing crush, and the rising temperature in my face was entirely undermining my ability to think straight.

Eventually I typed,

Nick: Your delusion is very impressive and contagious too.

"Nicholas."

My mother had turned away from the counter, a plastic container in her hand, but her words died the moment her eyes found my face.

What came next was the type of motherly instinct that could detect a shift in body temperature from across a room, regardless of the child’s age or medical history.

She dropped the towel and moved toward the table instantly, her hand already reaching out. "You’re completely flushed. Nicholas, is your fever coming back?"

I pulled my head back, but her palm was already pressed firmly against my forehead.

"I’m fine, Mum—"

"You’re burning up," she insisted, her eyes widening with immediate panic as she reached for her purse on the counter. "We are going back to the clinic. I knew it was too soon for them to let you leave, I told your father this was a mistake—"

"Mum. I am fine," I said, my voice rising slightly as I stood up from the chair to escape her touch. "It’s just hot in here."

She stared at me, her hands on her hips. "It is the middle of June, Nicholas."

"The building’s heating is set entirely too high," I muttered, desperately searching for any logical exit strategy.

"I’m going to open a window. Actually, I’ll go get the... the thing you said we were out of." I grasped for whatever word she had used during her monologue while I had been staring at my phone. "The milk. I’ll go get the milk."

My mother paused, looking at me as if I had lost my mind. "You need eggs, Nicholas. You have an entire carton of milk in the refrigerator."

"I’ll get both," I said immediately, already moving toward the small coat rack by the entrance. I grabbed the nearest gray hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, sliding my feet into my shoes before she could launch another counterargument.

"You are the most stubborn man alive!" her voice followed me down the small hallway, echoing through the apartment. "Your father is exactly the same way, always running away from a thermometer—"

The heavy front door clicked shut, cutting her voice off instantly.

The outside air hit my face with a sharp, cool breath that felt incredible against my hot skin.

I walked down the ordinary gray street, keeping my posture straight and deliberate... the look of a man who was simply running a mundane errand, rather than someone trying to process three different crises simultaneously.

I checked my phone three times before I even reached the corner. The message I had hastily sent back to Cyan sat there on the screen, completely unanswered.

My words were something defensive but given the actual temperature of my face twenty minutes ago, it had been a terrible strategic move.

The silence returned, but It sat differently now. It felt heavy.

Did the text land poorly? I wondered, my boots clicking against the pavement as I waited for a crosswalk light to change.

Should I send a clarification? Why do I even care if he misunderstands? I don’t care. I am simply a person who values efficiency in communication. Misunderstandings are an inefficient use of data.

I checked the screen again outside the entrance of the grocery store. Still nothing.

The interior of the shop was bright, smelling of cold plastic and fluorescent lighting. I moved through the aisles mechanically, gathering the eggs and the unnecessary carton of milk with the bare minimum of human interaction required.

When I stepped back out onto the sidewalk, the phone remained completely silent. A small, unfamiliar weight began to settle at the base of my throat... a quiet, irritating feeling that resembled regret for calling him delusional.

Perhaps the joke was too harsh, my thoughts shifted as I began the walk back toward the apartment. Perhaps I should say something else. Not an apology, obviously. Just a statement of intent.

I stopped mid-stride, catching the direction of my own internal monologue with a sudden flash of fury. Why am I currently managing his feelings? This is absurd. I have never managed another human being’s emotions in my entire life, and I am certainly not going to start with him.

I checked the phone anyway.

Before I could slip the device back into my pocket, the screen lit up with a continuous vibration. A name appeared across the glass, but it wasn’t the one I had been waiting for.

Lila.

I hesitated for a beat, the grocery bag crinkling against my leg. I had been successfully avoiding her calls for nearly a month, and we had barely spoken over the last month since the incident with Cassian.

But I knew her nature perfectly. If Lila didn’t get what she wanted through standard channels, she would simply begin an independent investigation, and her presence in my current situation would be an incredible logistical inconvenience.

I pressed the green button and brought the phone to my ear. "Lila."

"You actually picked up," her voice came through the speaker, crisp and entirely unimpressed. "Color me shocked."

"I’ve been busy," I said, the lie slipping out with smooth, professional practice. "The hospital has been—"

"Right, work," she interrupted, her tone clear that she didn’t believe a single word of it. "Do me a favor and turn around."

I stopped on the pavement. "What?"

"Turn around, Nicholas. I can see you."

I turned slowly, my eyes scanning the opposite side of the street.

Lila was standing on the corner outside a small sidewalk café. She wasn’t alone. She was standing next to a tall man in a dark coat, someone I didn’t recognize from the hospital or any of our mutual social circles.

As I watched, her hand rested briefly, familiarly against the man’s forearm, her head tilted as she said something quiet to him. A moment later, she stepped back, leaving him by the café tables.

I watched the interaction from across the distance, waiting for some kind of internal reaction to arrive. Nothing did. I couldn’t care less.

Lila was already stepping off the curb, crossing the street directly toward me. Her face carried that exact expression, the sharp, determined look she always wore whenever she had decided a conversation was about to happen, regardless of whether the other party had consented to it.

I stood there on the cold sidewalk, holding a grocery bag full of things I didn’t need, with Cyan’s silent phone heavy in my pocket, and let out a long, quiet sigh.

This was going to be an exceptional problem.