By my first break, I've not heard from Ben. My mind is reeling. The distress moves from my stomach up into my lungs, making it hard to breathe, forcing my heart to race. It's been hours since I sent him the text. He always replies right away. Always. My spidey sense tingles. Something is not right. What's going on? Should have I waited and told him in person? But the delivery doesn't change the facts. I send Ben another message. How long should I wait before calling his Mom or friends and not sound like a crazy girlfriend?

When the shift ends, I rush to the locker and check my phone.

Mike: Call ASAP.

Mike: Don't call Ben. Call me.

I call Ben. He doesn't pick up. I call Mike.

"You've reached the voicemail of Mike Stavros—" Mike's detached voice plays in my ear.

"It's Am. What happened to Ben? I'm at work, and I can come right now. Is he in the hospital? Please, text me the details." I hang up and try calling him a couple more times, still getting the voicemail. I text him the same message and also text Marguerite, Tall and Jaimie. I don't know who else to reach out to.

Me: do you know what happened to ben?

Me: text me if you know anything.

No reply. Is Ben in a hospital again? Or he is dead, and I'm the last to find out?

I grab my stuff, rush out and head toward my car when a hand grabs my shoulder from behind and turns me around. Disoriented, I forget to scream when I face a menacing giant in biking gear with a helmet in one hand. He steps closer. It's Mike. My panic subsides. A muscle ticks under one of his worried eyes. His expression is solemn. Mike without a smile curls my blood.

"What happened? Where is Ben? Why is no one replying to me?" I do sound like a crazy girlfriend.

"Ben had a...shit...an episode."

"What episode?" I rub my temples and try not to scream. "What are you talking about?"

"You know Ben has Asperger's, right? He'd better fucking told you."

"He told me he was diagnosed with some stuff, yes."

"Some stuff? How much do you know about his history? Do you know anything about the Autism Spectrum?"

"Well, the general stuff I read for one of my psychology courses," I say.

"Jeeze, you might've invested some time into learning about it."

"I—" I scrunch my face. I'm an awful person.

"Doesn't matter now," Mike cuts me off. "Listen, sometimes, if there's a stressor or a dramatic event, he..." Mike looks around, blows out a short burst of air. "He goes into this...state where he doesn't interact."

"What does that mean?" I wait for more explanations.

"It doesn't sound like much but when he's in this state it can appear like he's catatonic. Does it make sense?"

I nod but all of this makes very little sense.

"How about this," says Mike. "Imagine Ben unresponsive, immobile, collapsed on the spot and no amount of talking or consoling gets him out of it."

Bile rises in my throat. I caused that? "Is it happening now? Where is he?"

"Oh, he's home. He's better. Jaimie was supposed to have a meeting with him and a client and he didn't show and didn't reply to any calls, texts or emails. It's so unlike him. She went to check on him and when he didn't answer the door, she went in."

My nods come faster. "What happened?"

"He was curled up on the floor with his eyes open staring into space but not talking to her. Jaimie's never seen him like that. She fucking freaked, called Marguerite and me. Ben's mom went to his place, but I came here after you didn't pick up your phone."

"I broke him." I slap my hand over my mouth. "I broke him." I repeat through my fingers and stare into Mike's eyes, expecting hate.

"Shit, Am, you didn't break him." His eyes soften and he squeezes my shoulder. "He's not a toy." Mike's voice is gentle. "But something like this was inevitable. You turned his world upside down. It was a matter of time."

"Is Ben okay? Really okay?

"As okay as he can be. Was hoping you could come and talk to him."

"Let's go." I run to my car.

My focus is on staying in one lane fighting against the gusts of wind, threatening to push the car sideways. Marguerite greets me at the entrance to Ben's apartment, excuses herself in a hushed tone, joins Mike in the hallway, and closes the door. Ben doesn't come out. I venture into the living-room and then his office only to find him lying on his side in the bedroom.

I creep over to see if he's asleep and am relieved when his head turns my way. Not breaking the silence, Ben scootches up and crosses his legs, offering me a space to sit next to him. What do I say? I stare at my hands while rolling my lips between my teeth. Should I ask him about his...episode? Should we talk about France?

"Do you remember my bulk apology on one of our first walks together?" Ben breaking the silence first comes as a surprise.

"Yeah, why?"

"Because I have to do this again. Please, forgive me for everything I am going to say, for hurting you —."

"It's okay, Be —"

"It is not okay, Amélie. What I need to tell you will hurt, and I am sorry, but it is not something we can get over at this point."

"But —"

Ben grabs his head with both hands and squeezes it. "Let me get it all out, please; you must realize by now I find it difficult to talk about the emotional things."

I put my fist against my mouth and nod.

"You keep telling me what I feel for you is nothing more than physical attraction, that it will pass, that I can feel this with anyone, and I want to believe you and not believe you at the same time. I love my parents and friends, but I have never experienced romantic love, something I've wondered if I would get to experience at all." Ben puts his hand on mine and interlaces our fingers. His eyes are dull and listless. I want to kiss his worries away. I want to promise him anything he wants. I will stay. I will love him. He doesn't have to worry about any of this. He has me. I bite on my first and say nothing.

"And yes, I acknowledge the physical pull towards you," he says. "But I have desired other women in the past. Since before I was a teenager, I knew I liked girls, and I would get erections like any other boy my age. But this thing between us, it's more than a constant hardon. My dick is not the only part of me that covets you. My hands, my chest, my head, my entire body needs your presence. I obsess about the times we are together and plan for the next chance to see you." He squeezes my hand.

The obsession, the need for his presence, the comfort it brings me—it's the same. I feel the same. I bite harder on my fist. Tears roll down my cheeks and I have no hands to wipe them away.

"You told me time and time again that all you are looking for is fun, and I can not settle for just fun, Amélie. I want more, I want you to want more, and we are out of time."

I swallow the lump of snot, and it mixes with invisible tears running down my throat. My heart still hurts more than my fist. I bite so hard sharp pain travels up my arm. Quick, shallow breaths push hot air out of my nose.

"We need time, Amélie. Both of us do. You have a lot of things you need to accomplish. When you didn't get in I was upset but also happy. If you decided to stay here, we might have a chance but getting the text about your acceptance made it clear to me. We are not going to work. I know how smart and talented you are, and they are lucky to have you. I may not be able to read between the lines sometimes, but I was certain you will be leaving."

How can he be certain when I am not? A piece of me hates him for saying it. Bitterness eats at my solar plexus.

"And you should go. There's nothing keeping you here." He wants me to go to France? He's not mad at me for considering it? "I have been battling with my decision since I agreed to your terms in the car, persuading myself what you were willing to give me was enough. But it's not enough."

This does not sound right. Nothing keeping me here? What we have is not enough? I take my fist out of my mouth. Red grooves from my teeth remain in my skin. I take a ragged breath and blink the tears away. I can't hold it in any longer.

"Just say it."

If he's breaking up with me, he needs to say it.

"I considered what I want, and you can not give it to me right now." He runs his thumb over our interlaced hands.

I jerk mine out of his. My lips make a popping sound when I pry them apart. "Just say it.."

"I'm breaking up with you, Amélie."

His words match what Xavier told me. I push my first into my solar plexus. The bitten skin stings as I squeeze it into the middle of my body, corroded by the acidity. Pain to pain. Why do people like hurting me? I thought Ben was different. I hate them—Mom, Dad, Ben—all, all of them, every single one of them.

"I hate you," I tell him. "I hate, you, I hate you, I hate you." I hit my weak fists against his chest, hating myself the most.

"When I saw your text, it was no longer an if, but a when. I'm sorry."

"I hate you!" I shout over his pointless explanations.

"Don't say that." He reaches out to me, but I lean away. "It's not the right time."

"It's never the right time." I know it too well. "It's a lie people keep telling each other to make themselves feel better. Time is not going to magically be perfect or make everything better."

My brain and my heart are battling again. I wipe my eyes dry on the sleeve of my coat. A breakup with Ben is something I planned all along. But it was supposed to be my decision. My choice. Him doing it to me robs me of that. Maybe I would've stayed. Maybe. But that's not an option anymore.

"It's time for you to follow your dream. I will miss you. But you won't get what you're after if you stay here."

What I'm after is for someone to fight for me, to want me. I thought he did but I was wrong. I still want him, but I can't have him. I sneak my arms around Ben's waist, bury myself in his chest, and will the hurt and anguish to vanish. A single tear forms in the corner of my eye. It sits there for a moment like a skydiver readying for a jump before plunging down my cheek and soaking into Ben's shirt. One tear at a time, I squeeze Ben out of my heart, wishing to wring myself dry of wanting him.

Ben's arms wrap around me, his chin rests on the top of my head, humming and swaying us side to side, in a slow rocking motion of not quite a trance and not quite a lullaby. I find Ben's lips, and the briny taste of sadness mixes on our tongues. I savor him, gathering my resolve.

My chest is raw, but my mind is set. Ben's right, but that's not going to make it easy. Xavier was right too: a clean-cut was the best thing—no need to prolong the agony.

I flee the comfort of Ben's lips. My heart is punching me from the inside, screaming at me to stop, to go back to the solid circle of his arms: one last kiss, one last time. The warped words out of Ben's mouth don't reach me. The pain of heartbreak is physical and debilitating. With an effort, I focus on the sounds of my breath. In and out, in and out, in and out.

To the hallway, breathe, grab my coat, breathe, to the door, breathe, to the elevator, breathe, to the car, breathe. In and out, in and out. The bloody mess inside me throbs. Breathe. The hard part is over. Nothing went as I'd planned, the decisions were made for me, but I got what I wanted.