We stayed there like that for a long time. I sobbed into the crook of his neck, clinging to him, and I can’t remember now, because I was trying so hard not to get any salty tears on his suit, but I think he was holding me just as hard as I was holding him.

I had started to worry when the torrent of crying began to subside. As the hysteria that had made me throw sense and caution to the winds abated, the beginnings of alarm and panic began building.

But he had pulled us apart, gently, igniting a physical memory so painful that I started sobbing again, thankful to have something to do with my body, since spontaneous combustion wasn’t an option. And he had brushed my wet hair off my hot face and kissed me on the forehead, then on each cheek, then very, very softly, on the mouth. And he had asked me just once whether I was going to look up, and when I had shaken my head at the ground, held my hand and said, ‘Okay, come on.’ I had tried to fix my hair with one hand as he led me through the lobby to the reception, and then into an elevator, where I tried to reclaim my other hand to aid the hair-fixing but was told in a very firm voice that said hand would not be relinquished any time soon.

I couldn’t remember when my body had just given out, turning itself off for a while. But I woke up electric, like I hadn’t slept at all.

It had happened. It had all happened. I didn’t for a moment wonder whether I had imagined last night, or dreamt a very real dream, because when you are that alive, when you are a mass of sparking energy, when you are superhuman, a humming lucidity is part of the package.

Still, I could hear my blood pounding as I picked up the single white sheet on the pillow next to mine. It was thick and expensive, embossed with the hotel logo—the kind of paper that bore invitations.

Dear Tara,

I know that as you go about your day, it is more than likely that you will play last night over in your mind a fair few times. And I know chances are that, after all your reconsiderations, you will settle upon regret, anger—at yourself and at me—and fear of what scary repercussions are to follow.

I stopped reading. I put the letter down. My heart jumped into my lungs and I breathed three blank pages worth of shallow, panicked beats.