Almost without Wanting

I hadn't realized how much I missed her—until she started drifting back into my daily rhythm like she'd never left.

It was subtle at first. A coffee on my desk before I even got in. A new inside joke scribbled onto a Post-it in Harper's handwriting. The way her laughter had started finding its way back into my afternoons.

It was like watching spring take over a gray sky: slow, stubborn, and still completely out of my control.

One morning, she appeared behind me while I was elbow-deep in spreadsheets.

"Hey," she said, dropping something beside my mouse. "Thought of you when I saw these."

It was a small packet of chocolate-covered pretzels. My favorite brand—the exact flavor I hoarded like a secret.

I looked up to say thanks, but Harper had already turned and walked away, humming like it was just another Tuesday.

It wasn't.

Not to me.

She started showing up more often, sometimes leaning over my cubicle wall like she used to, recounting oddball stories from college or whispering irreverent commentary during team meetings.

"Corporate culture is just pretending to care about cake until retirement," she'd mutter whenever someone rolled out store-bought vanilla for a birthday.

I laughed. Always too quickly.

To anyone watching, we looked like two friends catching up. To me, it was like stitching warmth into the cold edges of the day, pretending the thread didn't burn through my fingers.

Over lunch that Thursday, we sat outside near the back stairs, balancing salad bowls on our laps and pretending the sun wasn't trying to fry us.

"Loe wants to run a full marathon," Harper said between bites. "Like, an actual 42k. For fun."

I paused. "I didn't even know people really did that unless they were being chased."

"Right? I told him that. I'm like, 'Sir, this is not the Hunger Games.'"

She grinned, fork waving in the air, and I laughed because she was ridiculous—but also because she was happy.

And then, like always, that smile stuck in my throat.

"You ever run before?" I asked.

"Ran from commitment in college," she said. "Does that count?"

We both laughed.

It should've been harmless. It wasn't.

That night, I stayed up later than I meant to. The streetlight outside my window pulsed through my curtains like a heartbeat—too steady to ignore.

I pulled out my phone and opened my camera roll. Scrolled past selfies, team dinners, the blurry ones from the conference — and paused on a photo I didn't remember taking.

It was two mugs resting side by side on a table, one chipped gray and the other green — Harper's favorite color. I stared at it for a moment, trying to place when it happened. Maybe one of those late work nights at the office kitchen or during a random team lunch. I couldn't be sure.

Still, I remembered the caption Harper had joked about back then: "Aggressively quinoa." I had nearly choked laughing.

I stared at that picture too long. Then put the phone down and turned my face into the pillow.

On Friday, Dani FaceTimed me just as I was unwrapping a granola bar for dinner. Her screen lit up with energy—bold lipstick, pink silk bonnet, and a glass of wine balanced on her knee.

"Look at you," I said. "Giving wine-mom realness."

She grinned. "Look at you. Giving 'defeated accountant at 8PM.'"

"Touché."

"I'm going out tomorrow. Just drinks. You're coming."

"I'm… what?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't make me beg. Tasha's coming too."

"Tasha?"

"Tall. Our coworker. Wears rings on like, every finger. Funny. Has a thing for you."

I laughed. "I met him one time."

"And he told me you have 'quiet energy.' Which is code for: I like her but I'm afraid she reads minds."

"Maybe I do."

"Then you should know he's cute, gainfully employed, and will be wearing a leather jacket. That's all I'm saying."

I smiled. "I'll think about it."

"Progress," she said, toasting her wine to the screen. "Actual progress."

Back at work, Harper found new ways to inch her way into my space. Sometimes literally.

"Your desk smells like stress," she said one afternoon, plopping into the spare swivel chair across from me. She held up two smoothies. "Fixing that."

I blinked. "Where did you even go?"

"New health place down the street. I got you the one with pineapple. Or mango. Possibly both?"

I took it. "What's the occasion?"

"Do I need one to be nice?"

"No," I said, smiling. "But it makes me suspicious."

Harper leaned back in the chair, sipping her own drink with a shrug. "Rae's thinking of organizing a weekend thing when Loe's back. Beach or anywhere . Chill. You should come."

I hesitated.

"She specifically said to invite you," Harper added, as if that sweetened the deal. "She likes you."

I nodded slowly. "Sounds fun."

It was a lie.

Not because I didn't want to go. But because I wanted it too much, for all the wrong reasons.

That night, I wrote a list.

I didn't title it at first. Just opened my Notes app and started typing in the dark.

• Finish that online finance course

• Try that sushi place Dani keeps raving about

• Go dancing, once

• Let someone text first

• Paint something, badly

• Learn to sleep without checking my phone

• Let it go

At the bottom, I added a title:

"What I Want (That Doesn't Involve Her)"

Then I closed the app and let myself breathe.

On Saturday, I met Dani and Tasha at a rooftop bar that smelled like lime and too much ambition. The air was humid but alive. Music pulsed through the floor, and someone in the corner was badly singing a SZA song on karaoke.

"You came!" Dani said, dragging me into a hug. "Looking like casual heartbreak."

I snorted. "That sounds like an indie album."

She pulled me toward the high-top table where Tasha sat, one foot hooked on the stool rung, flipping a ring around his finger.

"Hey," he said, looking up with an easy smile. "Nice to see you again."

"You too," I said.

And I meant it.

He was funny. Not too much. Just the right kind of confident. He told a story about a client who'd tried to bribe him with scented candles, and I laughed more than I meant to.

Not because I was trying to prove anything.

Just because it felt good.

Later that night, when I got home, I stood in the hallway for a minute longer than usual. My apartment was quiet. Still.

I didn't check my phone. I didn't scroll through photos.

I just sat on the floor, back against the wall, watching the city lights blink through the blinds.

It still hurt. Of course it did.

But for the first time in a long time, the hurt wasn't all there was.