The cursor blinks, a relentless tiny pulse against the white screen. Sandra watches it, willing it to change. Her inbox sits open, a stark, empty canvas beneath the ‘Sent’ folder. Every few minutes, her hand twitches, hovering over the trackpad, then drops. She tells herself she does not care, that the email was just a dare, a moment of reckless abandon spurred by Julie. But her stomach knots, a tight, cold ball of anticipation and dread. She pushes away from the desk, the crutches thudding softly as she finds her balance. A circuit around her small office, a glance out the window at the endless grey sky. She tries to focus on the stacks of financial reports on her corner desk, the neat rows of client files, but her mind pulls back to the screen. Jim Cotton. The name echoes, an unwanted guest in her thoughts. Returning to her chair, she sighs, the sound thin in the quiet room. Her fingers tap a restless rhythm on the keyboard. This is foolish. He is busy, a manager in a different department. He probably has not even seen it. He might be out of the office. He might think it is a joke. A shiver, cold and unwelcome, travels down her spine. The thought of him laughing, sharing it with someone, makes her chest tighten. She checks again. Still nothing. The silence of the inbox is deafening. It means rejection, she knows. It always means rejection. A slow, creeping numbness begins to spread through her, a familiar blanket. Better this way, she thinks. Better to know, better to not build up hope. Hope is a fragile, dangerous thing, especially for her. Her core wound, the constant thrum of perceived inadequacy, begins to hum louder. Her phone buzzes with a notification. Not email. A news alert. She taps it open, reads two sentences about the city council, then closes it. Distraction is a flimsy shield. She finds herself back on the email client, her gaze fixed on the inbox. One more refresh. Just one more, then she will focus. She takes a deep, shaky breath, her thumb pressing the F5 key. --- The screen flickers, then settles. A new message, bolded. From Jim Cotton. Her heart gives a sudden, violent lurch, slamming against her ribs. Her breath catches. This is it. The moment she both craved and feared. Her finger hovers, trembling slightly, over the subject line: “Re: Coffee?”. She clicks. The email opens. It is short. Two lines. Her eyes race over the words, then read them again, slower this time, letting each one sink in. “Sandra, Thank you for the invitation. Unfortunately, I have prior commitments that evening. Perhaps another time.” ‘Perhaps another time.’ The words hang in the air, polite, dismissive, final. Not a clear no, but not a yes. A soft, gentle let-down. A noncommittal brush-off. Her shoulders slump, her entire body deflating like a punctured balloon. The fragile courage she had mustered yesterday, the defiant spark Julie had ignited, extinguishes in an instant, leaving only a hollow ache. He has commitments. Of course he does. Important commitments. Not like her. Not like the woman who hobbles through the office, a spectacle of inconvenience. The confirmation of her worst fears settles over her like a shroud. She knew it. Deep down, she always knew. This was never going to be different. She closes the email, her hand numb on the mouse. The office lights seem to dim, the fluorescent hum a mournful drone. The reports on her desk blur into an indistinguishable mess. Her throat tightens, a sudden burning sensation. She wants to cry, to scream, but no sound escapes. Only a quiet, desolate stillness. --- She leans back in her chair, the padded leather offering no comfort. The brief, polite email replays in her mind, a broken record of rejection. “Prior commitments.” A universal code for ‘not interested.’ He had seen her, really seen her, in the coffee alcove. The way his gaze had lingered, not on her eyes, but on her crutches, her exposed stump, the awkward angle of her body. She had felt it then, the clinical assessment, the pity. Or worse, the curiosity. He probably just wanted to confirm what he thought he saw. Her mind twists the memory, each detail a fresh sting. The way she almost fell, the sudden lurch, his quick hand on her arm. He was not protecting her, she realizes now. He was just being polite, doing the bare minimum. A normal person would have done the same. He had not been looking at her with interest, but with scrutiny, cataloging her imperfections. Sarah and Chloe’s whispers echo: “the woman with a limp.” He had probably been wondering how she managed, how she even got around. Not how beautiful she was, not how interesting. Past rejections surface, ghosts from a lonely history. The boy in high school who had held her hand in the hallways, only to pull away when his friends looked. The date in college who had excused himself to the bathroom and never returned. Each memory, a shard of glass, twisting in the old wounds. Every man, eventually, saw only the missing leg. The burden. The brokenness. She remembers the defiance she felt yesterday, the fleeting conviction that she deserved to try. It feels naive now, childish. Her perceived inadequacy is not a perception; it is a fact. She is unlovable, undesirable, a constant reminder of what she is not. The email is just another confirmation, a polite reiteration of a truth she already carried in her bones. Her chest feels hollow, scooped out. The shame washes over her, cold and heavy. She should never have sent that email. It was foolish, reckless. Now he knows. Now he knows she had even entertained the thought. The humiliation burns, a deep, slow fire beneath her skin. She wants to disappear, to shrink until she is invisible. --- Her phone rings, jarring her from the spiral. Julie. Of course. Sandra glances at the caller ID, then lets it ring twice before answering, forcing her voice into a casual lightness she does not feel. “Hey, Jules.” “So?” Julie’s voice is bright, expectant. “Did he reply? Don’t tell me you haven’t checked. Spill.” Sandra shrugs, though Julie cannot see her. “He replied.” Her voice sounds flat even to her own ears. She clears her throat. “Just a quick, polite note. Busy, you know. Prior commitments.” She tries to make it sound as if she expected nothing else. “Oh.” The brightness in Julie’s voice dims slightly. A pause. “And that’s it? He didn’t suggest another time? Or give a number?” “He said ‘perhaps another time.’” Sandra’s fingers grip her crutches, knuckles white. The phrase feels like a flimsy excuse, a polite way to end the conversation. “Pretty standard, really. People are busy.” “Right,” Julie says, a hint of skepticism in her tone. “But you’re okay? You don’t sound… devastated. Or even annoyed.” Sandra forces a laugh, a brittle, strained sound. “Devastated? Don’t be silly. What did I expect? It was just a dare. A bit of fun. No harm done.” She hopes her voice conveys indifference, but a subtle tremor betrays her, a slight catch on the last word. She can feel the disappointment, a dull ache beneath the bravado. “Hmm.” Julie pauses again. “Well, if you say so. You know, sometimes guys do that. Play hard to get. Or maybe he really is busy.” “Or maybe,” Sandra interrupts, her voice sharper than she intended, “he just isn’t interested. Which is fine. Really. I have work to do, Jules. Talk later.” She hangs up before Julie can press further, the phone feeling heavy in her hand. The pretense exhausts her, leaving her even more hollow. --- Evening descends, painting her apartment in long, grey shadows. The quiet feels heavy, pressing in on her. She needs a distraction, something to pull her away from the echo of Jim’s polite refusal. Her gaze lands on the top shelf of her small bookcase, where a forgotten copy of her favorite comfort novel, a worn paperback with a dog-eared cover, sits just out of reach. She crosses the living room, the crutches making their familiar rhythm against the polished wood floor. Standing before the bookcase, she stretches her arm, craning her neck. Too high. She needs to get closer, maybe shift her weight, lean into it. She considers dragging a chair over, but the effort seems too much, her emotional turmoil draining her physical energy. Instead, she shifts her forearm crutches, resting them against the shelf, trying to leverage herself up a few inches. Her single foot lifts, searching for purchase on the small, decorative lip of the bookcase base. It is a precarious balance, one she has managed countless times before, but tonight, her mind feels clouded, her focus fractured. The rejection, the shame, it all weighs her down. Her hand brushes the book. Almost. She reaches further, her body tipping forward. A sudden, unexpected wobble. Her crutches, not properly braced, slide sideways. Her foot slips from the narrow ledge. She feels herself falling, a sickening lurch in her stomach. The crutches clatter to the floor, a harsh, splintering sound against the silence. Later that evening, while attempting to retrieve a forgotten item from a high shelf, Sandra lost her balance, her crutches clattering to the floor as a searing pain shot through her stump, leaving her stranded and vulnerable.

Chapter 4: Echoes of the Past