(Clara's POV)
I don't remember what Kyle said exactly.
Not word for word. Just the way it landed.
"Maybe we're leaning on each other too much."
"Maybe we should start giving each other some space."
He said it like he was helping. Like he was fixing a leak before it became a flood. But all I heard was: "I need less of you."
And maybe he was right. Maybe we were too close. But the way he said it… felt like being gently pushed out of a place I thought I belonged.
So I gave him what he asked for.
Space.
The first few days were manageable. We still sat near each other in class—just not side by side. We still exchanged the occasional look when a lecture got confusing or ridiculous. We still existed in the same world.
But something had shifted.
He stopped texting. I stopped trying. Our rhythm was gone.
And the worst part? No one noticed. Not our classmates, not our lecturers. To them, nothing had changed. We were just two students, like everyone else. Invisible.
But I noticed.
I noticed how my thoughts still drifted toward him every time I learned something new or funny, how my phone felt heavier now that it stayed silent. How I started showing up earlier to class, hoping he'd sit beside me again like before. He didn't.
I told myself I didn't care. Told myself I needed the space too. That I could do this alone—I had before, I could again.
But that wasn't the point.
It wasn't about needing him. It was about liking him and liking the quiet comfort of having someone who just got it. Someone who didn't need things explained, who didn't ask for more than you could give.
We were never anything official. But losing him still felt like a breakup.
That Sunday evening, I stayed back in my hostel room while most of my roommates went out to eat. I wasn't hungry. I had notes to review, but they sat untouched. The room was quiet—just the hum of a fan and the occasional beep from someone's forgotten power bank.
I picked up my phone and dialed Harrison, my little brother.
He picked up on the second ring.
"Claraaa!" he sang.
"Harrison," I smiled. "What's up?"
"Nothing. Just finished that long science homework. I don't get how you do this school thing every day."
I laughed. "I don't. I just pretend better."
He snorted. "You're pretending your way through coding and calculus? Teach me your ways."
We talked for a few minutes—about his classes, how Mum still made him sweep every Saturday morning even when there was nothing on the floor, how he got into a fight with a classmate over a game. Same old stuff.
Then he asked, "You seem distant-sounded. Are you okay?"
I paused. "I'm fine. Just… school things."
"Boy problems?" he teased.
I didn't answer.
That was enough.
"Oh," he said. "There's a boy problem."
"It's not like that."
"Sure."
I sighed. "We're not dating. We're not even... anything. He's just someone I study with. Or used to study with."
"Used to?"
"He said we were leaning on each other too much. That we needed space. So, I gave him space."
Harrison was quiet for a second. Then, with way more seriousness than I expected from a 14-year-old, he said, "Did he ask for space because he was scared, or because he didn't like you anymore?"
I blinked. "What?", "I don't know," he said. "Sometimes people back off when something starts to matter too much. Like, it's easier to step away before it becomes a mess."
His words hit harder than I wanted to admit.
"Since when did you get wise?" I asked.
"I watch movies. And I listen when you rant on the phone."
I smiled. "Right."
He yawned. "Just don't let it ruin your focus. If it's meant to work, it will. But don't sit around waiting either."
"I'm not," I lied.
"Good. Now go be a genius or something."
We hung up, and for a while, I just sat there, staring at my screen. That conversation did something. It didn't fix how I felt, but it helped me stop pretending I didn't feel anything at all.
Kyle wasn't just a classmate. He wasn't just a study partner. He was someone I had started to count on, quietly, without realizing how much.
And now I was trying to un-count him.
A few days later, I was walking past the café near the computer lab when I saw him sitting outside with Darren. Laughing. The kind of laugh that fills your throat and makes your eyes squint.
I hadn't heard him laugh like that in weeks.
Something sharp lodged itself in my chest.
Not because he was laughing—but because he looked okay. Like he'd adjusted. Like I hadn't left a gap in his day at all.
Maybe I hadn't.
Maybe I had made something bigger in my head than it actually was.
Later that evening, I opened our old chat thread. Just stared at it. The last message he sent. The last message I sent. Nothing dramatic. Just: "Good luck on the quiz."
That was it. That's where we stopped.
I wanted to text him. To say, "Hey, can we go back to how things were?" Or maybe even, "Did I do something wrong?" But I couldn't bring myself to.
Because I knew the answer.
I hadn't done anything wrong. He just chose focus. And I wasn't part of that definition.
So I focused too. Buried myself in code, lecture slides, and assignments. I pulled late nights at the library, joined a group project I didn't even like, and avoided any hallway where I might bump into him alone.
But avoidance only works for so long.
Two weeks later, we were both assigned to the same presentation group—of course, we were. Fate or bad luck. Maybe both.
There were four of us total, but the other two didn't matter. The moment we sat down in the discussion room and made eye contact, everything around us faded.
He looked at me like he wanted to say something. I didn't give him the chance.
"I already drafted a few slides," I said, opening my laptop. "Let's not waste time."
He nodded. "Alright."
The meeting was civil. Efficient. Tense.
We talked like strangers with a job to do. Polite. Brief. Careful. It was exhausting.
After the others left, it was just us. I started packing my bag quickly, hoping to leave before the silence turned into something heavier.
But then he said, "Clara, wait."
I froze. Not because of the words. But the way he said my name. Soft, like it wasn't supposed to break.
I turned to him.
"I didn't mean it like that," he said. "That day. When I said we needed space."
I blinked. "Then how did you mean it?"
He hesitated. "I just… I was scared I was losing focus. And you—us—it was getting too important. Too distracting."
"And that's a bad thing?"
He ran a hand over his face. "I don't know. I thought it was. But now—everything's been harder without you."
I stared at him. He wasn't dramatic. He never was. But this looked like effort. Like someone trying to say something right for once.
"It wasn't easy for me either," I said quietly. "I thought you didn't want me around."
"I did. I still do."
The silence that followed felt different this time. Not tense. Just honest.
We didn't hug. We didn't make promises. We didn't go back to "normal."
But we left that room walking side by side.
Closer than strangers. Still not lovers. Still not sure where we stood.
But together.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.