Elise woke up before her alarm.
It wasn't the sunlight pouring through the blinds or the birds outside her window. It was something else—something low in her chest, buzzing quietly like a power line. A restlessness. A ripple of afterglow.
She didn't want to name it. Hope had a way of making fools of women like her.
She stretched in bed, her fingers grazing the pillow beside her. Empty. Cold. But she didn't feel lonely. Not right now.
The memory of last night rolled in like warm tide—Adrian's voice, his laughter, the way he looked at her like she was more than a stranger. Like she was worth watching. Remembering. Like he wasn't trying to get something out of her.
Or maybe he was. They all were. Weren't they?
She made coffee and curled up on the couch, her laptop open on her thighs. But she wasn't working. Not yet. Instead, she stared at a blank Word document and let her mind drift—to all the ones before Adrian. All the dates, almosts, and disasters she kept pretending hadn't hardened her.
She opened her Notes app and found the one she'd titled "WTF IS WRONG WITH ME."
It was a list.
Of names.
Of men.
Some were real. Some she couldn't even remember.
#1: Nathan – Mr. Overly Spiritual
Wouldn't kiss her unless the moon was in Aquarius. Asked her to "cleanse her aura" before sex. She saged her apartment after he left anyway.
#2: Kyle – Mr. Finance Bro
Tried to pitch her a crypto scheme before dessert. Told her she was "marketable" because she had "a face that sells."
#3: Jonah – Mr. Still Not Over His Ex
Showed up to their third date drunk, said Elise reminded him of "the way she used to laugh." She didn't laugh.
#4: Eric – Mr. Emotionally Supportive Until He Wasn't
Listened to all her stories. Encouraged her writing. Then ghosted her for three weeks, only to text: "Sorry, I panicked. Wanna try again?"
She had tried again.
He panicked again.
Elise sighed and shut the laptop. Her coffee was cold.
She leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
What made Adrian feel different?
Was it just timing?
Or was she desperate to believe someone like him—a man who walked her home, respected her space, looked at her with something close to sincerity—could be real?
She got up and walked to her bookshelf, running a hand along the spines. True crime. Feminist essays. Memoirs. She pulled out a paperback she'd read in college: The Gift of Fear.
The irony was suffocating.
She remembered underlining this passage: "Charm is a verb, not a trait. Beware those who use it."
Her fingers trembled slightly as she closed the book and tucked it back.
No. Adrian wasn't like that.
Right?
The day passed in a blur of indecision. She wrote a little, deleted most of it, microwaved leftovers, and finally caved—texting Naomi.
Elise:Went on a date last night. A good one. With the bookstore guy.
A few seconds later, her screen lit up.
Naomi:Wait. YOU had a good date? Who is he and what kind of voodoo did he use?
Elise:His name's Adrian. Charming. Smart. Funny. Not a douche. So far.
Naomi:I don't trust it. Let me google him.
Elise laughed.
Elise:Please do. I'll feel better.
While Naomi's dots bounced, Elise stood in the mirror, brushing her hair out of its messy bun. She caught her own eyes—tired, maybe, but softer. She looked... lighter.
Until her phone buzzed again.
Naomi:So far, no red flags. But also... no digital footprint. Like, barely anything. That's either a green flag... or a serial killer flag.
Elise:Oh good. I'm either dating a unicorn or a psychopath.
Naomi:Call me if he brings out a taxidermy collection.
Elise laughed aloud and sent a voice note: "You're not allowed to ruin this with logic. Let me enjoy the illusion of meeting a decent human being for like, 72 hours."
Naomi responded with a dramatic sigh. "Fine. But I want a full background check by Sunday. And maybe a hair sample."
Elise shook her head, smiling. "You're deranged."
"And you're delusional. Love you."
That night, she couldn't sleep.
She tossed and turned, caught in that strange space between remembering and rewriting.
She remembered the first time she was ghosted. She'd been twenty-four. Had slept with a guy named James who said he liked her "brain first, then her mouth."
She never heard from him again.
She remembered crying in her friend's bathroom because he'd blocked her number before she even left his apartment building.
She remembered telling herself it was fine. She was fine.
She always said that.
She always acted like heartbreak didn't hurt, like rejection didn't feel personal.
But it did.
It always did.
Somewhere around 2 a.m., she reached for her phone again.
No texts.
Nothing from Adrian.
She opened his thread, stared at the last message he'd sent: "Already planning the next one."
Maybe he'd meant it. Maybe he hadn't.
Maybe it didn't matter.
Maybe she'd always be the girl who could write about murderers and liars, but still fall for a good smile and a glass of wine.
Her thoughts spiraled. Her gut twisted.
She closed her eyes and whispered into the dark:
"Don't screw this up, Elise. Don't fall for another dream."
But dreams didn't ask permission.
And nightmares often wore beautiful faces.