You are wrapped in your favorite sweater on a cold winter morning. Outside, it's just beginning to snow. You wonder if it will stick for good this time. It might still be too early.

C. doesn't love you, you realize with sudden, absolute certainty. After eight months of back and forth, sleepless sleepovers, unreturned texts, and the slow return to impromptu trysts (you're weak—C. beckons, you follow) it dawns on you, like the firm click of a door shutting into place, that it's not even over—but something that never really began at all.

A lump forms in your throat. You're too tired to cry. You make coffee instead, and get ready for work.

It might be time for a change.

You're at work, checking your phone reflexively. You scroll through your Instagram feed and absentmindedly like photos of your friend's pets, pause over vacation photos, and exit the app altogether when you see a photo of C.

The office is cold as usual—your boss prefers it that way. You're sure it's to save on the heating bill, but he claims it's because he "runs warm." You attend meetings all morning and attempt to take notes. Today is especially futile.

M. makes small talk with you as usual—they are your closest coworker and your lunch buddy of choice. You suspect that they might be interested in you romantically. It's hard to say. You might just be craving affection.

There are approximately 20 tabs open on your browser—only 3 of which are related to your job. You click through them idly for a while. You should be doing something, anything, since you're already behind this week. You open a report in Excel and then immediately go back to browsing modular furniture you can't afford.

"Lunch?" M. says casually, swinging by your desk.

"Give me 5 minutes."

M. looks really good today, you think to yourself. Someone like M. isn't really your type—they're classically good-looking, you admit, but you prefer someone more disheveled, more prone to laughter, slighter, with a crooked smile. C.

You think about how pathetic you're being, and will yourself to stop. You and M. are sitting at a diner near your office, sharing fries to start. M. is looking at you speculatively. You can tell they're on the brink of asking you something, but holding back.

"What's up?" You ask. Your veggie burger is mostly uneaten.

"You've been pretty stressed lately," M. says. "I think we should get drinks tonight."

"With everyone?" You ask, because even though you already know, you'd like it spelt out.

"No," M. says, pushing their hair back—a nervous habit of theirs. It just falls over in the same place. "Just the two of us. What do you think?"

You pause, unsure. There are too many things that might go wrong. You think of work. You think of C. You think of M., who's sitting in front of you, waiting.