He said it while standing in front of the refrigerator
“I have time, but probably not with you.”
He spoke just as the fridge door swung open. A chill brushed my face—tock—and the beer can in my hand trembled. No, my hand trembled.
What did he just say?
He was still tearing open the delivery tteokbokki. The smell of red pepper flakes filled the room, yet I couldn’t breathe.
Moments earlier we had been stretched out side-by-side on the sofa, half-watching Netflix. His arm had crept onto my shoulder; the tips of our feet had touched in that subtle, electric way. That was all.
And then—those words.
Time: the cruelest lie
What were we, exactly? For three months we met every Friday night: bars, fried-chicken joints, each other’s flats. We kissed, but never crossed the bedroom Rubicon, as if someone had laid down a simple, unspoken rule.
He was always busy.
“Work’s crazy…”
“I’ve got plans with the guys…”
“This week is insane…”
I understood. We’re adults. But Friday nights were mine—or so I thought.
Now this. I have time, but not with you?
It wasn’t mere rejection. It was sweet, venomous sleight of hand. He was giving away time; I simply wasn’t in it. A ticket had been issued, but my name had been quietly erased.
Why does that line make me come undone?
Psychologists call it the omission bias. The brain hears “there is, except for you” and translates it into “soon there might be.” The more you replay it, the deeper the hook.
“I have time, but—” → Possibility still flickers.
“—not with me.” → If only it weren’t me.
The burden shifts. It’s not that I lack time; it’s that I don’t choose to spend it on you.
Brutally honest arithmetic: you are not valuable enough to occupy his hours.
We fall for it like gamblers. Next round I’ll win. Next Friday he’ll make room. And every week we scratch another ticket.
Three months later, I had collected nothing
In the end I said, “If it’s really about time, I can understand.”
He hesitated.
“I do have time.”
“Then?”
“I just think it’s better without you in it.”
That night I deleted every message between us. But the sentence stayed:
I have time, but probably not with you.
Now every Friday night I fall asleep hearing it.
Somewhere, someone else is probably standing at another open refrigerator, hearing the same words.