Let me handle this

Words couldn't do justice for what I felt for Dahlia. Saying I loved her more than anything in the world felt hollow, like it wouldn't even scratch the surface.

But regardless of how deep my feelings ran, I should've never let them rule me. Becoming a "slave of love" isn't nearly as romantic as it sounds, trust me.

Huh? Ah, sorry, you're right. I should start by telling you about that first.

Please give me a moment to organize my thoughts.

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Let's start with the day before. It was around two weeks after our last date—the one where she sent me back to work.

That morning, I kept dropping eggshells into the batter. Yolks broke without warning. The mixer shrieked. And my kneading was uneven, rushed.

Usually, my smile came out naturally—drawn out by satisfied customers. That day, it was just part of the job. I was simply counting the minutes until my shift ended.

Then, as soon as I left, I turned off my phone. Didn't want another work call to separate us.

I went for a more modest look that time: a long, brown skirt—my favorite—and the beige blouse I'd bought on our last date, which matched perfectly with the skirt and my boots. I tied my hair back in a ponytail—not for any particular reason. I just felt like it.

I considered wearing contacts, but in the end, I stuck with my usual glasses—Dahlia always said they looked cute on me.

We met at the station, and for a moment, the noise around thinned to a hum.

Her crop top caught the light, baring most of her waist. Ripped shorts clung to her hips, and her legs stretched endlessly beneath. She towered over me like the sun in the sky.

No sunglasses—heading to another city, she didn't need to hide her face. Her forest green eyes were fully visible, framed by a cascade of waist-length hazel hair.

I loved her in every look, but the boldness of this one—and how much I'd missed her—made my heart pound so hard I thought I might pass out.

Talking with her during the ride was a blast. The topics didn't even matter—just that every second with her was bliss. Still, I kept my focus. Anytime the train stopped, I glanced around at the boarding passengers. Eventually, when the train was nearly full, an old man climbed aboard. That was my cue. I stood up right away and offered him my seat. He thanked me with a big smile and said something along the lines of "Nice to see some respectable young'ns still remain in this day and age."

That warm, fuzzy feeling stayed with me for the rest of that dreamlike day.

I could recount every single thing we did from memory, but I shouldn't drag this out. Instead, I'll only mention the moment that stole my heart the most: when she stepped between me and a few distracted kids running around, taking the full splash of the ice cream one of them was carrying. She ruined her designer clothes just to protect mine. And in that moment—stained and smiling—she looked more beautiful than any goddess could ever dream to be.

Actually… I think there is one more thing worth mentioning, even though I don't like thinking about it. At one point, she was recognized—apparently by a pair of gals from our town who just happened to be on a holiday, too. They complimented Dahlia and asked for photos, and I feared things would end up exactly like they did on our last date.

But surprisingly, they didn't. Dahlia must have made a real effort to keep it from going to her head again. It was commendable.

However, I can't say the same for myself.

Although the whole exchange lasted less than two minutes, I felt my blood boil. I wasn't living in the present—where Dahlia made an effort to avoid distractions and focus on me—I was trapped in the weight of dozens of moments when she did the opposite.

She noticed, of course. And perhaps in a bit of a desperate attempt, tried to calm me down by whispering in my ear and guiding me back to the hotel.

We spent the night there. I won't go into details—just know that by the next morning, I was convinced all my anxiety and worries were completely washed away.

But I was wrong.

No matter how many good moments we share, no matter how deeply I buried my ugly side, it never truly disappeared.

It was still there—just waiting for the right moment to surface.

We were having a light lunch at a coffee place when I remembered the news I'd meant to share the day before but had forgotten amid all the fun we had.

"Listen, Dali, you're gonna love this—one of my regulars, who knows how much we're into this kind of thing, just invited us to a fashion show in the capital during the second week of September."

Her response came a second too late.

"Oh, Eli, that's wonderful" I caught a slight stutter in her voice, but I was already prepared for the concern that would come next.

"I know—your work can be unpredictable and something might come up last minute." I gave her a proud grin. "But my client knows that too. He said he can get us into any of the shows that week. So even if your agent throws one, two or five last minute calls your direction there's no way your whole week will be booked."

"That sounds great, but still… you see…"

She was struggling to find the right words, and it shrunk my stomach. Why wasn't she bursting with excitement? She loved fashion even more than I did. Was something really so important that week she couldn't spare a single day?

Always the same. Every second date we planned was either cancelled or cut short because of work. I get it—it's her dream job, and she wanted to climb as high as she could while still young. But… was it more important than us?

Every moment she fidgeted, my worry grew exponentially. I was getting worked up—even though she hadn't actually said no yet.

So when we got interrupted at such a delicate moment, it was just too much.

A man approached, looking directly at Dahlia, and wearing a dumb smile.

"Hey, sorry to intrude, but I just wanted to say you look really lovely. I was wondering if you'd ever be up for grabbing coffee or something like that."

He was probably going to leave as soon as he got an answer, regardless of the response. I should've just let Dahlia politely turn him down. You couldn't blame him for thinking we were two girls hanging out.

But none of that crossed my mind at the moment.

Instead, a bitter, revolting taste swelled in my mouth. I barely held it together behind my smile, and it poisoned every word I spoke after.

"Of course she looks lovely—way to stress the obvious. But maybe next time, try reading the room before crashing in uninvited?"

The man looked puzzled, understandably. "Excuse me?"

"No, excuse you."

Dahlia frowned slightly. "Eli, it's fine, I can handle this."

"No, no, let me handle this, darling." I turned back to the man. "Do you make a habit out of interrupting dates? You really think saying 'sorry to intrude' makes it okay?"

The man raised his hands in a defusing gesture. "Okay, chill. I didn't know you two were girlfriends—my mistake."

I should've taken Dahlia's glare as a sign to stop right then and there—but I was too frustrated by how little time we'd been spending together lately. I saw him as someone trying to steal my happiness just as I finally got a taste of it again.

I couldn't stop myself—all the feelings I'd tried to bury took over.

"Yeah, that's your second mistake. Didn't they teach you in kindergarten not to judge by appearances? How dense can you be, really." I rolled back one sleeve. "Want me to show you how much of a girlfriend I am?"

"Enough!" A cracked, screeching voice—not at all fitting Dahlia's beauty.

Nearby stares locked onto us—onto her. Someone like her should never have to endure that kind of attention.

She didn't say a word before leaving. She just looked at me, and her eyes told me everything I needed to know: You look disgusting right now.

No matter how smooth my hair, how pristine my blouse, how delicate my makeup—my attitude ruined it all.

Realizing this, I sank back into my chair, hands over my head.

The man left right after, not wanting to be part of this any longer.

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Sometime later, I returned to an empty hotel room. Dahlia's things were gone.

Even though I knew we should talk it through, I felt relieved she wasn't there. So I just collapsed onto the bed. I wanted to cry, just to release the pressure—but I held it in, clinging to what little dignity I had left.

I should've let it out while I still had the chance.

Instead, I buried it all again, like I hadn't learned a thing… and drifted off.

…

A buzzing sound woke me sometime later. I checked my phone—nothing. It was Dahlia's, tucked under the pillow. The caller ID showed a name I didn't recognize, but I answered anyway, thinking she might be calling from a friend's phone.

The voice was familiar—someone she often spoke to through her phone during our dates.

Her agent.

"Small update on the offer for next month, gal."