Modern love, told through a microscope.
A psychological tragicomedy about intimacy, avoidance, and the absurdity of trying to feel.
Debut Novel
On Further Reflection
On Further Reflection is a psychological tragicomedy that follows Theo Brandt, an emotionally avoidant barrister who’s spent most of his life arguing his feelings out of existence—that is, until he meets Dionne Evans, a woman he cannot logic away.
Plagued by what he calls a mental infestation, Theo seeks professional help.
But after one too many therapy sessions, a concerning amount of pamphlet reading, and far too many mirrors, he becomes—to his horror—so pathologically self-aware that he can no longer ignore his own patterns.
Through a series of unfortunate events, Theo finds himself dating the very woman he’s been trying to avoid.
For someone who fears love, dating her is both the problem and the cure.
About the Author
Hi, I'm Charlotte. I write about the fragile architecture of human connection—how we reach for closeness, how we flinch from it, and how unbearable it is to do both at once.
My work dissects love, repression, self-awareness.
It’s psychological, tender, quietly revealing.
…Until, of course, it isn’t.
Because inevitably someone flashes a nipple, another writes an instructional manual on cunnilingus, and someone briefly considers faking a cardiac event mid-date.
Which is to say: I make the serious unserious.
My stories are tragic, comic, and faintly ridiculous—often all at once.
Excerpts
As per therapy homework, I’m to ignore all sensible instincts and lean into connection at what I would personally categorise as “reckless levels.”
Apparently, this will help me feel.
The problem is, I’m already feeling far too much.
She smiles at me, slowly, like she’s letting the warmth build before it reaches me.
It lands in my chest, and I briefly mourn the loss of my personality.
I can’t believe she’s opposite me. So close. So touchable.
I imagine all scenarios: holding her hand, kissing it, her blushing, coy; us playing footsie under the table, Dionne probably escalating it because she’s filthy in the most elegant of ways.
Yes. In fantasy, I’m suave, bold, tactile.
In reality, I’m sitting bolt upright, hands clasped like a man about to lead us in prayer.
My mouth finds hers.
I keep it closed, gentlemanly, polite—
While my erection presses, unambiguously, against her.
Not ideal.
Can’t reposition now.
And honestly… It feels alarmingly good.
I tighten my grip on her waist.
Possibly too tight.
Don’t mention it.
She groans into my mouth.
Her tongue grazes my lower lip.
I cannot.
It’s not gentlemanly.
Must stay in control.
Must be—
She tries again.
I hold my ground.
Closed lips. Steady hands.
Erection doing the absolute most.
Her voice loops in my head like an earworm, low and obscene: I want to do so fucking much to you.
It’s the only sentence my brain has chosen to retain this week.
That, and a reminder from my therapy app.
How are you feeling today?
I type: Restless.
The app sends back a little smiley face and a follow-up prompt: Care to elaborate?
I do not.
But images arrive, unsolicited.
The soft drag of her mouth. The press of her hips. Her voice in my ear like treacle and static.
I try to reframe it. It’s not desire, not exactly. It’s chemical. A rogue neurological loop. Hormonal misfiring. The amygdala responding to sensory triggers. Perfectly rational. Perfectly containable.
I press the heel of my hand against my eye socket. Try to blink it out.
Containment seems increasingly theoretical.
The trick to intimacy is remembering it’s all theatre. The performance of being desirable is really quite straightforward: smile, but sparingly; mystery is magnetic. Let her feel chosen, yes, but never indispensable. Keep it light. Keep it witty. Keep the upper hand.
She doesn’t need to know your inner thoughts, your calendar, or that you rehearse small talk in the mirror before she arrives.
Try to control as many variables as you can: hide the therapy books, vacuum the rug, iron the tea towels (it might be a dealbreaker). Fix your personality. Invent a hobby that sounds impressive but requires no effort. Brief the cat.
Alfredo perches on the arm of the sofa, licking his paw with regal indifference.
“Listen,” I tell him. “This is important. She’ll be here any minute, and you need to act like a calm, well-adjusted cat. No zoomies. No vomiting in the hallway. No mournful opera at the door.”
The only independent variable is, unfortunately, the woman. Sometimes she’s predictable. And sometimes… she’s Dionne.
Days blur into weeks. Weeks drag into months. The weather thaws.
I don’t. I remain cold. Detached. Unfeeling.
Some nights, I manage. I’m sharp, quick, almost myself. Witty enough to pass. Awake enough to perform.
Other nights, I can’t. The mask slips.
Those nights are unbearable. I watch her face too closely, searching every blink, every pause, every downturn of her mouth for the moment she decides she’s had enough.
She rarely texts between Thursdays: a small mercy. Less chance to misinterpret grammar for disdain.
My date nights have become a prelude to therapy, which feels vaguely managerial. Pimp-adjacent.
Malcolm reminds me, week after week, that I’m to sit in intimacy. That if I endure long enough, the longing I once felt in her absence will resurface.
As per therapy homework, I’m to ignore all sensible instincts and lean into connection at what I would personally categorise as “reckless levels.”
Apparently, this will help me feel.
The problem is, I’m already feeling far too much.
She smiles at me, slowly, like she’s letting the warmth build before it reaches me.
It lands in my chest, and I briefly mourn the loss of my personality.
I can’t believe she’s opposite me. So close. So touchable.
I imagine all scenarios: holding her hand, kissing it, her blushing, coy; us playing footsie under the table, Dionne probably escalating it because she’s filthy in the most elegant of ways.
Yes. In fantasy, I’m suave, bold, tactile.
In reality, I’m sitting bolt upright, hands clasped like a man about to lead us in prayer.
My mouth finds hers.
I keep it closed, gentlemanly, polite—
While my erection presses, unambiguously, against her.
Not ideal.
Can’t reposition now.
And honestly… It feels alarmingly good.
I tighten my grip on her waist.
Possibly too tight.
Don’t mention it.
She groans into my mouth.
Her tongue grazes my lower lip.
I cannot.
It’s not gentlemanly.
Must stay in control.
Must be—
She tries again.
I hold my ground.
Closed lips. Steady hands.
Erection doing the absolute most.
Her voice loops in my head like an earworm, low and obscene: I want to do so fucking much to you.
It’s the only sentence my brain has chosen to retain this week.
That, and a reminder from my therapy app.
How are you feeling today?
I type: Restless.
The app sends back a little smiley face and a follow-up prompt: Care to elaborate?
I do not.
But images arrive, unsolicited.
The soft drag of her mouth. The press of her hips. Her voice in my ear like treacle and static.
I try to reframe it. It’s not desire, not exactly. It’s chemical. A rogue neurological loop. Hormonal misfiring. The amygdala responding to sensory triggers. Perfectly rational. Perfectly containable.
I press the heel of my hand against my eye socket. Try to blink it out.
Containment seems increasingly theoretical.
The trick to intimacy is remembering it’s all theatre. The performance of being desirable is really quite straightforward: smile, but sparingly; mystery is magnetic. Let her feel chosen, yes, but never indispensable. Keep it light. Keep it witty. Keep the upper hand.
She doesn’t need to know your inner thoughts, your calendar, or that you rehearse small talk in the mirror before she arrives.
Try to control as many variables as you can: hide the therapy books, vacuum the rug, iron the tea towels (it might be a dealbreaker). Fix your personality. Invent a hobby that sounds impressive but requires no effort. Brief the cat.
Alfredo perches on the arm of the sofa, licking his paw with regal indifference.
“Listen,” I tell him. “This is important. She’ll be here any minute, and you need to act like a calm, well-adjusted cat. No zoomies. No vomiting in the hallway. No mournful opera at the door.”
The only independent variable is, unfortunately, the woman. Sometimes she’s predictable. And sometimes… she’s Dionne.
Days blur into weeks. Weeks drag into months. The weather thaws.
I don’t. I remain cold. Detached. Unfeeling.
Some nights, I manage. I’m sharp, quick, almost myself. Witty enough to pass. Awake enough to perform.
Other nights, I can’t. The mask slips.
Those nights are unbearable. I watch her face too closely, searching every blink, every pause, every downturn of her mouth for the moment she decides she’s had enough.
She rarely texts between Thursdays: a small mercy. Less chance to misinterpret grammar for disdain.
My date nights have become a prelude to therapy, which feels vaguely managerial. Pimp-adjacent.
Malcolm reminds me, week after week, that I’m to sit in intimacy. That if I endure long enough, the longing I once felt in her absence will resurface.
Get in Touch
Got a question or want to chat about writing? Drop me a message.