This number—this fucking phone number.
Morning or evening, getting up or going to bed, it’s always there. It stares at me, taunts me, mocks me every day from the post-it on the arm of my bedside lamp. Holding there by habit, yellowed with the years, it’s only present to remind me of a failure—my failure.
But why can’t I get rid of it, then? Why do I still care when it’s been almost three years? The thoughts churned in Ocean’s mind as they lay there, staring at the faded digits from their bed. A part of them still wonders—what if?
I’m done waiting though—hoping for her to call me back or whatever. I gotta know. I must move on, they thought, a mixture of resolve and dread knotting in their stomach. Today’s the day I call her. Today, I apologize. Today, I find out if there’s still a chance—for Us.
With a deep breath, Ocean reached for their phone—the weight of a thousand days’ pressing down on their arm. As they dialed, each beep felt like a step toward an unknown, yet irrefutable truth. They were on a path they could never retreat from, about to open Schrödinger’s box with cat food in their trembling hands.
« Hello? » The voice on the other end was instantly recognizable, bringing years of memories flooding back with a single word.
Ocean’s heart skipped, caught between elation and terror. Can I really do this? Can we go back? But they pushed through, voice steady, « Jane, it’s Ocean. We need to talk. »
###
A brief and polite conversation later, it was agreed—they would go for a drink together this evening. Hanging up, Ocean’s heart was pounding and myriads of thoughts raced through their mind.
Why did she say yes so fast? Did she want to cut the call short? Is she still mad at me? Or is she in love? But what if she has someone else already? Should I take it slow? Or tell her I love her? And what if…
Sitting on the edge of their bed, they turned to the side and threw their phone towards the pillow, before falling backwards onto the mattress. In an attempt to calm down, they put their hands on their temples and shifted their focus from their thoughts to their toes. They tried to picture a heat cloud in it, then moved it slowly through their feet, up their legs, and in the rest of their body. This relaxation technique was one of the few things Hannah—Ocean’s mother—had the chance to teach them before her stroke, before she was bedridden and unable to speak. Their father—Brian Flynn—spent most of his time at work, struggling to meet both the basic and medical needs of the family.
Growing up as an only child who had to take care of a sick adult, Ocean spent most of their time at home. An introvert by nature, they preferred the company of books to that of most children their age. Socializing was not the issue, kids just didn’t understand Ocean’s queerness—making them a prime target for bullies. Assigned female at birth, they never felt like a girl, or a boy for that matter. They always stood with a presence that defied easy categorization—an embodiment of androgyny with a slender, willowy frame.
###
It was 6:00 PM when Ocean left the Flynn family home in Chicago’s suburbs, heading for The Hemingway. Well above the standards of a low-level journalist like them, it was Jane’s favorite place in the whole Gold Coast neighborhood. She used to drag Ocean there every Saturday, every Sunday, heck every day—or close to it. The place combined upscale elegance with a cozy atmosphere. It was always full of high-end business people and students from affluent families—all mingling over fancy drinks and fine food. Jane and her three best friends practically lived in this café. They spent most of their time together—knew each other so well it was intimidating.
Ocean hated taking part in these gatherings—they thought it was a waste of time and energy. The group’s impenetrable synergy made getting a single word in an ordeal. What was the point of trying to fit in with people who treat you with disregard, if not like an intruder? They’d talked to Jane about their discomfort multiple times, but she always replied that her friends actually loved them. She said Ocean would come to feel the same way, that all it’d take was to get to know them better, to spend more time together. But Ocean didn’t want to love them—they weren’t looking to make friends, least of all with Charlotte, Adam, or Birdie. They wanted to spend time with Jane, not with her acquaintances. They wanted to spend time alone together, to share intimate moments, to bond over whatever. They wanted to have heart-to-heart talks about life, about death, about anxiety, and about all the shit in human existence. What they wanted was a deep connection—a partner who’d listen and understand, but also trust them with their own burden.
Before meeting Jane, Ocean had never felt the need to open up to anyone. Emotions, desires, fears, none of that was a topic for the Flynns. “Life’s hard, shit happens, you just gotta keep moving forward,” as Brian would say. Jane was nothing like that—she was a different kind of walled-up. She felt things, yearned for things, drought things. She was bright, energetic, alive—a strong independent 21st century young woman. She was a Harrington, heiress of America’s richest mediatic dynasty. She’d been on the public stage since childhood. She knew every trick, could buy anything with a smile. She looked self-assured and invincible in every situation—above it all, always. Ocean knew all of this was nothing but illusion. A strong one, sure, but a lie nonetheless. Most of her friends—even the closest—bought this facade as the truth. Jane was a great actress who mastered her craft through an entire life of play pretend. But under sequins and designer clothes lay a different her—a shy, insecure girl.
Although Ocean found the public Jane very beguiling, all elegant and confident, they truly fell in love with the other her, the imperfect, hesitant one. The first time the two had met was at The Herald Tribune. Ocean worked as assistant to the editor-in-chief, William Blair, who happened to be Jane’s father. The newspaper was one of many properties of Eleanor Harrington—Jane’s mother and Harrington dynasty head. Despite its serious corporate atmosphere, it was a true family affair and Jane used to come by several times a week. Father and daughter seemed very close—Ocean noticed a clear difference between the way she acted with him and the rest of the world. She asked him for advice, a lot. Be it for the most serious matters such as a real estate purchase, or for the most frivolous ones like which top to wear for the next day. Her voice—usually so soft and low with a slight vocal fry—raised in pitch to an almost childlike degree around him. She was cute when she dropped the femme fatale act, Ocean thought.
After their first meeting in William’s office, their path began to cross everywhere and all the time. They bumped into each other in the cafeteria, in the corridors, in the elevator—they met so often Ocean wondered if it was merely by chance. Real conversations soon replaced small talks and the new friends became lovers within weeks. Ocean was ecstatic. They wanted to shout their joy from the rooftops, tell the whole world about Jane and them, but the passionate relationship had to remain a secret. This wasn’t a story of shame or adultery—Jane just wasn’t out, not to her mother anyway. She’d never had a girlfriend before, let alone non-binary female partners. Ocean had tried several times to persuade her to talk to her mother, but to no avail. The two had a complicated relationship. She was the eldest, supposed to carry on the family name and noble heritage. She was the heiress, she had responsibilities—she had to perpetuate the bloodline and therefore needed a husband.
###
On the L ride to their date, Ocean’s mind was flooded with images from the past. They stood by one of the train windows, the late afternoon sun casting a glow that seemed to ignite the fiery auburn of their hair. They caught a glimpse of their reflection in the glass—those striking tealish green eyes staring back. Hannah, with her poetic soul, used to say she’d named them Ocean, for their skin was as pale and delicate as the frothy lace atop waves, and their eyes held the mesmerizing intensity of the sea’s profound mysteries. Ocean had never paid much attention to these comparisons, but in moments like these, when their thoughts were as tumultuous as the sea, the resemblance felt uncanny. It was in these reflective pauses, they realized, that their external and internal worlds often seemed to merge.
They remembered the ups, the downs—the happy, and the sad of their relationship with Jane. One particular memory floated above the others. It was three summers ago, a season away from the breakup. Ocean had just started therapy on a whim. They didn’t expect much out of it, but each session felt like a surprisingly cool breeze—airing out the long-stored rugs of their heart and gently beating out the dust of years inch by inch. What struck them most was the ease with which their shrink could read their mind—his ability to extract things from others’ subconscious and turn them into words. He’d just ask the right questions and Ocean would start spewing out everything. This feeling of not belonging. This ever present sensation of being a fraud—of never being good enough, if at all. This apprehension of loved ones getting bored and leaving. This fear they would disappear the second they’d found out about their flaws, about all the mess imperfectly hidden behind a cracked mask.
Expelling all this was the first step toward wellbeing. Known issues allow for cause identification, and working on one’s traumas is hard but highly rewarding—once the tears dry, a gentle tranquility takes their place. Elated by the experience and keen to cultivate inner peace further, Ocean began delving into human psychology. They surrounded themselves with books about mental disorders and articles on wellbeing. The deeper their understanding grew, the more they shared their insights with Jane. Actions soon followed words and the once still and somber Ocean now radiated with serenity.
Jane seemed pleased to witness her partner’s transformation. She always welcomed conversations about their therapy sessions afterward, though she displayed less enthusiasm for introspection than Ocean did. She said she enjoyed these discussions, but changed the subject often—cutting the conversations shorter and shorter each time. It looked like the recovery of one somehow hurted the other. Ocean noticed that their girlfriend was more and more on edge during these talks, but couldn’t understand why. They discussed it with their therapist, searched the web, scanned their books, but remained desperately clueless.
###
Months went by and then came autumn. One Thursday at dusk, as Ocean emerged from a long day of work at The Herald Tribune, their phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—Jane wanted to go out for supper. She was used to sending multiple messages per sentence, as if one text could contain three words at most. She suggested sushi—odd. Ocean didn’t mind of course, they loved sushi, but it sure was an unusual suggestion from someone not into Japanese food. On their way to the restaurant, Ocean wondered. Was it a special date? It wasn’t a special day, nobody’s birthday. No new beginning, nor long-awaited end to celebrate. She had to be up to something, but what?
The restaurant was loud, but the night started quietly for the couple. Both had been very busy in recent weeks. Ocean’s work was exhausting and the tireless sun gave Jane insomnia. Ocean was delighted to spend time with their girlfriend. They always were. Being around her was like a drug for them—a highly effective yet quite addictive medication. But that night she looked absent. She stared into space, elbows on the table and the head resting on her hands. Her mouth was shut, her lips pursed, and her eyebrows angled slightly upward. Overwhelmed by the awkward silence at their table, the two faced each other speechless—waiting for the food to come at last.
Ocean pondered what to say—how best to help Jane. Was she upset? Sad? Tired? Should they try to make small talk first, or go straight to the point and ask what’s wrong? She’d insisted on going out, so maybe she wanted to clear her head? Had she had another heated conversation with her mother? With her friends? Ocean had no clue what to do.
They could hear a clock ticking nearby, through the din of the restaurant. Each click seemed louder than the last, and the idea of being clumsy, of saying the wrong thing and adding another weight on their girlfriend’s shoulder made them more anxious with every passing second. The food was slow in coming. The wait was interminable. Ocean began tapping their fingers nervously on the table but Jane didn’t seem to notice—her mind was somewhere else. A few more seconds passed and that was it. It was too much. Ocean took a deep breath, regained control over their restless fingers, and reached for Jane’s left hand with their right one. « You okay babe? » they asked in a crackling whisper. « Something’s on your mind? »
As Ocean’s palm touched Jane’s skin and their voice reached her ears, she suddenly awoke with a start. For a second, she looked Ocean straight in the eye with a lost gaze—her mouth ajar—before regaining a semblance of composure.
« Uh, no, » she cleared her throat. « It-it’s fine. »
« You sure? I mean, you can tell me anythi— »
« I said it’s fine. »
Jane frowned and looked to the side, as if trying to escape Ocean’s gaze.
Surprised by her reaction, Ocean remained speechless—staring at her for a moment before looking down at the table. They closed their mouth, took a deep breath in, then out through their nose, and gently squeezed their girlfriend’s hand.
« I love you, » they said, sliding their left hand toward Jane as an invitation to grasp it in return. « I know it’s hard to share sometimes, I really do. I don’t wanna force you or anything, and maybe now’s not the right time, but yeah… If you ever need help, wanna talk about something or bad-mouth somebody, I’m here for you. »
At these words, Jane withdrew her hand for Ocean’s and turned back to face them, tears welling up in the corner of her eyes.
« Here for me, you say? » she asked, a bittersweet grin across her face and the voice heavy with anger-tinged sorrow. « Please spare me the psychiatrist act… I know you love talking about him, about yourself, and about all his lovely theories on this very topic. But me, I’m not like that. I don’t. Need help. »
As the waiter was arriving with the couple’s order, Jane picked up her coat and stood up. « I don’t know what I expected coming here tonight, but I would’ve greatly appreciated it if, for once, you hadn’t been so nosy. Now I see that’s beyond you, so I guess this is goodbye—adieu, Ocean. » The once burgeoning tears were now streaming down her cheeks as she rushed through the restaurant door, disappearing into the chilly autumn night.
Stunned by what had just happened, Ocean remained paralyzed for several minutes, unable even to cry. They didn’t say a word for the rest of the night—didn’t think either. The surprise left them emotionally numb for two days. They didn’t see that coming—couldn’t understand what had gone wrong, when or how things had gotten so bad. They felt a guilt so intense it squeezed their heart, shortened their breath, and condemned them to silence—sucking the words out whenever they tried to call or text Jane to apologize.
In fact, Ocean didn’t even know what to say—should they ever get a chance to atone. Jane had told them they’d been selfish and self-absorbed—accused them of both neglect and indiscretion. She’d even suggested they’d had an affair with their therapist—which, for the record, wasn’t true.
###
There were only two L stops to go before The Hemingway. Two L stops to go before meeting Jane for the first time in three years.
Since the breakup, Ocean had had countless discussions with their friends and therapist about it. They’d put together a theory about the whole thing—knew that not all of Jane’s reproaches were justified. It’d been three years—Ocean knew it all, had rationalized every action, every word, every silence from both of them—they’d turned the problem on its head and beyond, but no matter how convinced they were of their own innocence, Ocean’s heart remained heavy with guilt.
Such a powerful feeling, Guilt. Some people were immune to it—for better or for worse—while innocent-as-a-lamb others could remain tormented for years. What even was guilt? Ocean wondered as they walked up the street to the café. Was it a product of empathy—the brain embracing a share of the victim’s pain? Was it a social learning mechanism internalized through education—a self-inflicted punishment to prevent further bad behavior? Or was it an egocentrically motivated concern—an unpleasant sensation arising when confronted with a poor self-image—a sentiment reinforced by the fear that others might see that same unfavorable picture?
So many possible explanations, it had to be a mix of all that—and possibly more. Ocean was searching for meaning, for causes to identify and solutions to apply. While their shrink agreed that understanding one’s feelings was essential, he’d told them it would take time to figure it all out. Recovery was a long-term process. Meanwhile, he suggested using this desire to make things right to start afresh—to build new, healthy relationships. He also said that, eventually, opportunities to resolve past tensions would arise—and that it’d be up to Ocean to seize them, should they feel ready then.
###
Ocean had arrived, at last—after three years and what felt like a never ending journey in public transport, they were once again in sight of The Hemingway. As they approached, the evening air wrapped around them with a brisk embrace—guiding their steps toward the entrance’s welcoming light, a true beacon of warmth in the cold twilight. The Gold Coast’s usual bustle faded into a hushed reverence here, as if the street itself honored the sanctuary nestled within its urban heart. The doorway, an elegant arch carved from the night, was topped by a sign. Subtle—yet undeniably proud in its elegant script—it proclaimed The Hemingway, its letters casting golden dancing shadows on the cobblestones below. Warm light spilled from the inside, illuminating the facade in a soft glow—the promise of a cozy refuge from the crisp Chicago air. The windows, curtained with a delicate touch, offered fleeting glimpses of the lives within.
The heart full of anticipation and the mind with apprehension, Ocean swept the interior with their gaze. A familiar silhouette caught their eyes, sitting at a table for two by herself. Ocean ran a hand through their short tousled hair, took a deep breath rearranging their shirt, and stepped forward—ready to resume weaving this long forgone tapestry.
###
The second Ocean pushed open the front door, a wave of warmth hit their face and music filled their ears. The place was alive as ever. Faced with this bustling crowd, they suddenly felt tense—almost overwhelmed—and hesitated to turn back for a moment.
I can’t leave now, they thought. Not when she’s so close. Not when she’s waiting for me and I’ve got so much to say. I can’t disappoint her—not again.
Ocean pulled themself together and resumed walking—making their way through tables and chairs like an explorer cutting through the dense jungle. Five meters to go. Four meters. Three. Two. And there she was, scrolling through Instagram nonchalantly.
« Hey, » Ocean said in a shy voice with a quick, tentative wave. « Is this chair free? »
Jane looked up from her phone and her face lit up as she recognized them. « Hi there! I’m afraid it’s already yours… But please, do sit. I won’t tell a soul. »
The buzz of The Hemingway settled into a mellow hum as Ocean slid into the seat across from Jane. Her smile was an invitation to shed the weight of their past, and despite their initial apprehension, Ocean found themselves drawn into the warmth of her presence. The three-year gap seemed to dissolve as Jane’s laughter echoed around them—a testament to her newfound lightness.
Jane looked different now—more at ease in her skin than Ocean remembered. Her hair—once meticulously styled in every public appearance—now fell in soft chestnut waves that framed her face with an effortless grace. Her attire was simpler, a stark contrast to the elaborate outfits of their past encounters. Burgundy high waist jeans, a floaty white crop top with long sleeves, and a black choker, she radiated a confidence Ocean hadn’t seen before.
« I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, » Jane started, her crackling voice smooth and steady. « And a lot of growing, too. I realized I was quite the… well, a bitch, back then, » she chuckled nervously, a soft blush tinting her cheeks. « I was immature, and insecure, and blaming you for caring, for loving me was just—so unfair. I’m sorry, Ocean. For everything. »
Taken aback by her candidness, Ocean took a moment to respond. « It’s… wow. I mean—I wasn’t expecting that to be honest. I wanted to apologize too actually. I know it’s silly but—I can’t help blaming myself for what happened. But thank you, really. That means a lot. »
The much-dreaded apology moment had passed and Ocean felt the unbearable burden they’d been carrying from three years slip from their shoulders. The twinge in their heart eased and they felt their cheeks lighten. As the two talked, the initial awkwardness melted away, replaced by a comfortable cadence reminiscent of their early days. Drinks flowed, and with each sip, the night deepened their rediscovery of each other. They laughed over old jokes, winced at shared embarrassments, and navigated the delicate dance of mending what had been broken. When they finally stood to leave, the café had become quieter and the cold outside seemed less biting, as if being close to each other casted a warm protective glow around them.
By the time they reached the bottom of Jane’s building, they couldn’t stop chatting and much less say goodbye, so they decided to continue the evening upstairs. There, the detailed memories of their precise conversations soon gave way to a blur of warm feelings and sensations—and when Ocean woke up, the soft light of dawn filtered through the blinds. The sun’s rays drew lines across the bed and Jane lay there, sleeping beside them. A sense of peace filled the room, akin to the gentle unevenness of breath following a cathartic cry, or the serene clarity of the dawn after a tempestuous summer night.
Careful not to disturb her, they slipped out of bed, grabbed their shirt laying on the floor, and moved to the kitchen. Through the window, the city was waking up—its sounds reminiscent of life ever moving forward. As coffee brewed gently in the corner, Ocean contemplated the view in silence. They didn’t know what was to come, whether this night was nothing more than a sweet parenthesis or the beginning of something meant to last—but for once, they didn’t care. For the first time in a long while, their mind was serene and their heart peaceful. For once, they were genuinely happy—and that’s all that mattered.