All morning, messages poured in, mostly from my mom and sister, all raving about the photos. Their excitement and happiness were evident, but each new message only deepened the gnawing guilt I couldn’t shake. Finally, curiosity got the better of me, and I pulled up the photos. There I was, standing next to Carter. We looked… genuine. Happy. Even enamored. The kiss wasn’t captured, but the other pictures revealed a closeness I couldn’t deny, even to myself. And then it hit me again—my harsh words, my accusations, everything I had said to him.

The urge to escape the office became overwhelming. I needed fresh air, space, and perhaps the clarity that stepping away could provide. So, I grabbed my bag and left early, wandering aimlessly through the city streets. The crisp air stung my cheeks, and I barely noticed the shops and cafes I passed. I couldn’t shake the memory of last night, my own voice raised, accusing him of using me, of manipulating me, as if I knew him well enough to be certain.

Lost in thought, I found myself in front of a small, quiet café with wide windows. I slipped inside, ordered a tea, and settled near the window, watching the rain drizzle down, blurring the streets in a gray wash. In this stillness, I finally had space to think. For the first time, I allowed myself to replay every detail of last night. The look on his face when I pulled away, the confusion, and then… hurt? Maybe.

An unwelcome realization began to dawn on me: I might have been wrong. I took a deep breath, trying to process it all.