12. Nicomachean Ethics
12
Nicomachean Ethics
Evan
I think I might hate New York.
Winter here is all sharp angles and cold steel and frosty rain.
From my desk on the fifteenth floor of KMG’s glass fortress, the city sprawls below me, a grey, indifferent blur.
The words Corporate Partnerships are printed on the glass doors behind me.
A department as far removed from Operations as possible.
Best for everyone involved, really.
Operations was a disaster.
I wasn’t fast enough, meticulous enough, driven enough.
Mistakes piled up. The review meeting was an hour of barely disguised disappointment.
I was quietly “transitioned” to Partnerships .
A lateral move , my father called it.
But we both know the truth: they wanted me out of the way.
Partnerships is calmer.
Less demanding. But even here, I’m treading water: my presentations are dull, my reports are passable at best. I’m not impressing anyone.
Least of all him.
The days blur together.
I wake up, sit through work, go home.
Even my new apartment feels like an unearned prize.
High ceilings, exposed brick, a skyline view.
None of it means anything .
I stare out at the city at night, watching people move with purpose, bundled against the cold.
They know where they’re going.
I don’t. I drift, a life of bare minimums: half-hearted conversations, emails sent just late enough to seem busy, reports hastily patched together and submitted with no proofreading.
At home, I scroll through my feed.
Sev and Ana?s at some gallery opening.
Zach and Theodora at a cosy café with friends I don’t recognise.
They’re moving forward, leaving a trail of perfect, curated memories in their wake.
And I’m just here, doing what I always do: waiting for my life to lead me somewhere.
I think about Sophie more than I should.
Don’t I always?
At night, I stare at the ceiling, wondering if Harvard is everything she wanted.
If Max still has his arm around her.
If he’s still whispering the same poison that made her try to leave me.
I should ignore it, but I don’t.
I scroll obsessively, saving every photo I find.
Sophie at some networking event, a glass of wine the same colour as her mouth in hand.
Sophie in dark clothes, hair pulled back tight, expression unreadable.
She never smiles. In every picture, she looks the same: joyless but focused, sullen but elegant.
She’s like a sliver of dark, intense energy, serious and rigid as a statue, but there’s something about her that draws the attention like a magnet: I notice it in every picture.
The way men and women’s eyes are drawn to her when she’s not even looking.
I close my eyes and I can hear her voice, low and smoky, picking apart some obscure case.
Her laugh, rare and velvety, scraping against some deep unreachable spot inside me.
Her eyes, heavy-lidded in lazy satisfaction.
Her mouth, upturned at the corner, almost mocking.
Her body, pliant, hot enough to burn a hole right into me, leaving me charred black at the edges.
Part of me wants to reach out.
To ask how she’s doing.
To tell her to come here, let me take care of her.
Just for a weekend. Just long enough to take the edge off the addiction.
But she’s already responding to my texts more than she was before.
I can’t risk pushing her away.
And if I’m honest? If she did, I wouldn’t blame her.
What have I done to deserve her?
I’m still the same mess I was at Spearcrest. Coasting on privilege and luck.
A walking disappointment to everyone who matters.
Earning her respect feels like chasing shadows, and I’m so fucking tired of running after something I’ll never catch.
So I don’t.
I let the days blur, surviving on caffeine, workouts, sheer inertia.
Meetings drift past in a monotone drone, every interaction like a bad play I’m forced to act in.
I lift as heavy as I can in the gym so I can pass out the moment I get to bed, and wake up sore.
I skip meals, knowing I shouldn’t, and zone out mid-conversation because I’m either too tired or too distracted or I just don’t care enough.
I sleep badly, which gives me headaches.
The city moves on, relentless, unyielding—like Sophie.
I just stay the same.
Maybe it’s despair, maybe it’s boredom.
Or maybe I just genuinely miss my friends.
It’s a random Thursday night: I’m exhausted from work and the gym, lying on the large flat couch that’s one of the only pieces of furniture I’ve bothered ordering so far.
It’s too early to go to bed: even if I try, I’ll just lie in bed tossing and turning and thinking about Sophie and how close and how far she is simultaneously and how she’s ashamed of being with me and how I begged her not to throw me away.
Maybe I’m seeking comfort, maybe wisdom.
I find myself texting Zach without even thinking, scrolling past Sophie’s name several times before I settle for the other smartest person I know.
Evan : Is Oxford hard?
His reply comes a minute later.
I can almost hear his dry tone and see his arched eyebrow in his text.
Zachary : It’s an absolute walk in the park.
Evan : Really?
Zachary : No.
I roll my eyes but continue doggedly.
Evan : Do you think Sophie’s having a hard time in Harvard?
Zachary : How should I know?
Evan : I’m worried about her.
Zachary : Then ask her?
Zachary : What on earth are you texting me for?
Evan : She won’t tell me.
She won’t let me look after her.
Zachary : How is that my problem?
I glare at the text for a moment.
It’s a good thing I didn’t text Zach for sympathy because he’s definitely not tripping over himself trying to provide some.
I type out my reply and delete it several times before gathering the courage to actually send it.
Evan : Do you think it’s possible that deep down she still hates me after everything that happened in Spearcrest?
Zachary : Do you think I have time for this?
I have lectures in the morning.
If you need a heart-to-heart, call Sev or something.
I send him a picture of me giving him the middle finger.
He sends back a picture of a page from the book he’s reading, with a quote highlighted that says: ‘ Anybody can become angry—that is easy. But to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way—that is not within everybody’s power and is not easy .
’
He captions the picture: “Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics , if you’re wondering.”
I type out the reply: Okay, but how does this help me—and immediately delete it.
He wouldn’t answer anyway.
Evan : Pretentious asshole.
Zachary : Witless philistine .
I don’t know what that means, and I refuse to google it, although I do order a copy of Nicomachean Ethics , hoping I can give him a taste of his own medicine next time.
And I do follow his advice and call Sev, but when the French idiot finally picks up, he’s walking down a sunny street lined with trees, and he’s got an arm thrown possessively over his fiancée’s shoulders, and she’s feeding him a bite of an enormous bright pink doughnut and he speaks with his mouth full.
“Hey man, how’s it going?”
And I’m so pissed off I just hang up and go to bed.
The week before winter break, my mother sends me a text inviting me home for Christmas.
I decline, telling her I’ll be visiting Zachary instead.
It’s a blatant lie, and she probably knows it, but I’d rather spend the entire holiday alone in my apartment than spend time with my family while we all pretend I’m not a walking talking disappointment.
On Wednesday, I step out of the shower after a brutal gym session to find a text waiting for me.
It’s from Sophie. My heart lurches, and I almost drop my phone in the bathroom sink.
I have to force myself to calm down, finish towelling off, and go sit on the couch, AC blasting despite the cold outside because I’m already sweating with nerves.
Sophie never texts first, and my gut tells me it can’t possibly be a good sign that she has.
Hand shaking, I swipe open the text.
Sophie : Bought a new dress.
Do you like it?
For a moment, I stare at my phone, blinking.
Water drips from my still-wet hair, rolling down my neck and chest. Is this some sort of test?
She’s not sent anything besides the text.
Did she mean to message somebody else?
Fuck it.
Evan : Send a picture.
Sophie : No.
Sophie: It looks better in person.
My breath catches. I bite hard into my lower lip.
My fingers hover over my phone as I try to think of something to say.
A second text pops up.
Sophie : What are the odds of you making it to my bedroom without anybody noticing?
My heart pounds with violent urgency as I reread her words three times over; my mind races, conjuring up every possible scenario that involves me sneaking into her room.
The silence stretches, thick and electric.
This time, I don’t hesitate, fingers typing out my reply quickly.
Evan : High.
She sends only one word back. Sophie : Hurry.