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> I know what I said.
I said I was done.
I said he could take his jawline, his iced americano, and his trauma-dump rizz back to the underworld where he came from
I said it while holding a match to his hoodie and crying to a playlist titled 'Feral But Fashionable'—so it felt official.
But now he's here. In my apartment.
Barefoot.
Wearing my pink silk robe.
And making spaghetti like this is some kind of indie domestic fantasy and not a violation of my restraining vibes.
"You blocked me," he says, casually flipping a noodle with the confidence of a man who once cried at a TikTok edit of us.
"You tagged me in your story," he adds.
"That was a cry for help," I hiss.
"You drew me as a raccoon and posted it with the caption 'don't feed the emotionally unavailable.'"
"Again, a cry for help."
He tastes the sauce. Nods. Like this is normal. Like we didn't almost set a Starbucks on fire arguing about Taylor Swift's moral alignment.
"I used oat milk," he says. "I remembered you're lactose-intolerant when emotionally unstable."
I blink.
I blink again.
I open my mouth to scream but only a wheeze comes out. Like a haunted flute.
"Why are you even here?"
He shrugs. "You posted 'someone come get their man' and I thought—well, maybe she means me."
"That was about a rat I saw stealing a sock on the subway."
"Still felt personal."
He hands me a plate of pasta.
I stare at it like it just confessed its sins.
He sits on my couch.
He puts on Shrek 2.
I eat one bite of the spaghetti and realize with horror:
It's delicious.
I'm losing.
I'm losing to the man I once caught Googling "can Gemini men be forgiven?"
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> I don't know what's worse.
The fact that he's in my house.
Or the fact that he's… calm.
Like he didn't once accuse my cactus of giving him "hostile energy" during an argument.
He finishes his plate. Wipes his mouth with a napkin. A cloth napkin he must have found in a drawer I forgot I owned.
"So," he says, "are we still pretending we're over each other or…?"
I choked.
Not on emotion. On a noodle.
I slam my fork down. "You don't just show up uninvited, hijack my kitchen, and serve me therapy pasta!"
"You said your love language was carbs."
"AND VIOLENCE!"
The doorbell rings.
I freeze. He freezes. My cat does not freeze—he dramatically falls off the windowsill like he fainted from the tension.
I open the door.
And there he is.
My backup plan.
The man I went on two and a half dates with to prove I'd moved on.
The man who only texts in lowercase and once said "I vibe with silence."
He's holding flowers.
He sees my ex behind me… wearing my robe… holding a wine glass… and mouthing "who's this?"
"I came to return your scrunchie," Backup Plan says.
"Why do you still have it?" I ask.
"It smelled like your shampoo. I wasn't ready to let go."
Espresso Demon lets out the most judgmental sip I've ever heard in my life.
"You're not the only emotionally unstable one with a signature scent," I snap at him.
"You wore my hoodie like it was armor!"
"It WAS armor! Against YOU!"
Backup Plan coughs. "Should I… come back?"
"No," I say. "Actually… both of you sit down. We're solving this."
They both blink.
I grab a whiteboard. I grab markers.
I draw a triangle. I label it 'chaos,' 'trauma bonding,' and 'delusion.'
"We're going to sort this out like adults."
My cat meows.
I nod at him.
"Exactly. Trial by karaoke."