Personal growth, now available with citrus notes.
Author: Niko
At 11:47 p.m., my phone lit up.
You up?
The message came from a man I had already removed from my life twice.
Apparently, the first two cancellations had been interpreted as intermissions.
He was handsome.
Funny.
Excellent in bed.
Emotionally, he was an abandoned shopping cart rolling freely through a parking lot.
Still, I stared at the message.
Not because I was interested.
Because my vagina occasionally operates a small nostalgia department without consulting management.
I knew what “you up?” meant.
It did not mean:
Have you healed?
Do you feel respected?
Would you like to discuss the ways I have grown since disappointing you?
It meant his evening had not produced a better option.
Romance is alive.
I picked up the phone.
Put it down.
Picked it up again.
This is how dignity leaves the body—through repetitive hand movements.
I needed a distraction, so I lit Pulp Friction.
I had bought the candle because the name made me laugh.
Also, pink grapefruit smells like sunlight with an attitude.
Fresh.
Tart.
A little sweet.
Exactly the emotional profile I had been trying to develop.
The candle caught.
Citrus moved through the apartment.
Suddenly, the room smelled like a woman who drank water, set boundaries and never reopened a door simply because the person knocking had excellent shoulders.
I was not yet that woman.
But the ambiance was convincing.
The phone lit again.
Come over.
No question mark.
Men with limited emotional intelligence conserve punctuation.
I imagined what would happen.
He would arrive looking unfairly good.
We would pretend the breakup had been a scheduling conflict.
There would be sex.
Then morning.
Then several days of communication with the rhythm of a failing internet connection.
I had watched this episode.
The nudity was strong.
The character development was not.
Great sex is not a character reference.
It does not prove honesty.
Compatibility.
Kindness.
It proves two nervous systems briefly completed a group project.
That is all.
The candle kept burning.
Pink grapefruit filled the room with bright, juicy confidence.
It smelled flirtatious.
But not desperate.
Seductive.
But selective.
The scent did not say, “Come over.”
It said, “You may submit an application.”
That was the friction.
The part of me that wanted him against the part of me becoming someone who no longer abandoned herself for a decent orgasm and three emotionally confusing business days.
Becoming is often described as expansion.
More confidence.
More love.
More abundance.
Sometimes becoming is subtraction.
One number.
One pattern.
One man who keeps returning because the door has historically been operated by hormones.
I opened his contact.
My thumb hovered over Block Caller.
This felt dramatic.
It was not.
We had not spoken in weeks.
He was not standing outside in the rain.
There was no orchestral score.
I was sitting in silk shorts with grapefruit in my mouth, negotiating with a screen.
Most life-changing decisions have terrible production value.
I tapped Block.
Nothing happened.
No thunder.
No spiritual notification congratulated me for choosing myself.
The apartment remained exactly the same.
Except quieter.
I expected to feel powerful.
Instead, I felt slightly nauseated.
A boundary is exciting until it removes the possibility you were secretly preserving.
That is why we keep certain doors cracked.
Not because we want the person back.
Because we want continued evidence that they still want access.
Attention is addictive.
Especially when affection was inconsistent.
Blocking him did not only remove him.
It removed the little performance where I rejected him repeatedly and called that healing.
Rude.
Apparently, growth wanted the entire pattern.
I placed the phone facedown.
Then I ate the grapefruit wedge.
It was bitter.
Of course it was.
Symbolism lacks subtlety.
Pulp Friction became the smell of that night.
A little tart.
A little seductive.
Bright enough to interrupt the bullshit.
The name works because change requires friction.
The old self does not leave politely.
She argues.
She remembers the chemistry.
She presents selective evidence.
She says one more time will provide closure.
It will not.
Closure is a door you close, not a meeting where he lies in better lighting.
The candle’s coconut-soy wax burned cleanly while I sat there feeling both lonely and relieved.
Those emotions can share a room.
Missing someone does not mean they belong in your life.
Wanting them does not mean access should be restored.
Desire is information.
It is not an instruction.
I let the candle burn while the room became mine again.
No waiting for footsteps.
No checking the phone.
No rehearsing how unavailable I would pretend to be when he arrived.
Just citrus.
Warm amber glass.
A small flame.
And the deeply erotic experience of not repeating myself.
I still make questionable decisions.
Personal growth did not turn me into a woman who meditates at sunrise and owns matching food-storage containers.
But now I recognize the moment before an old pattern begins.
The invitation.
The rationalization.
The tiny internal voice saying:
We know how this ends.
I trust her sooner.
That is becoming.
Not perfection.
Shorter negotiations.
Pulp Friction sits beside my sofa now.
Sometimes I light it because the room needs energy.
Sometimes because I want the apartment to smell juicy, expensive and mildly dangerous.
Sometimes because my phone lights up and I need a reminder:
He may still be hot.
The candle is hotter.
Light the candle. Block the number. Let the room smell better than your decisions. Burn Pulp Friction.
