Chapter 23 - Chapter 23 — The Distance He Tries to Keep Only Brings Us Closer

For the next two days, he kept an unusual distance from me. Not avoidance—he never pretended he didn't see me—but everything about him felt tightened, restrained, controlled to the point of suffocation. When I entered the café on Wednesday afternoon, he was wiping down a table. He froze for a split second the moment he sensed I was there, then forced himself to continue cleaning. "You're early today," he said without looking at me. His voice was calm, too calm—like he'd spent hours rehearsing neutrality. "I had a short class," I said, watching him carefully. "Right." He moved behind the counter, avoiding eye contact in a way that wasn't cold, but self-defensive. "Your usual?" "Yes." The café was quiet. Just us, and the faint sound of the coffee machine. He handed me the drink after a moment, fingers keeping a calculated distance from mine. I took the cup, but didn't leave. "Are you avoiding me?" I asked quietly. His hand paused mid-motion, just for a second. "No." "You're lying." He finally lifted his eyes to mine, and the conflict inside them was unmistakable. "I'm trying to give you space," he said. "You don't need to." "I do," he said softly. "For both of us." I stepped closer. "Did I do something wrong?" "No." He hesitated. "You did everything right. That's the problem." My breath stilled. His voice was low, steady on the surface, but trembling underneath. "You… really don't understand what you're doing to me." He looked away again, exhaling slowly. "The more time I spend with you, the harder it gets to think clearly." "So you're distancing yourself?" "I'm trying to," he whispered. "But it isn't working." Before I could respond, the door opened and a couple of customers walked in. He immediately straightened, the mask returning to his face as he took their orders. I sat down by the window. Even when he was talking to other people, I felt his attention drift toward me—quick, subtle glances he probably didn't even realize he was making. When the café emptied again, he walked over to wipe the table beside me. Too close. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. "If I make you uncomfortable," he said quietly, "tell me. I'll stop." "You don't make me uncomfortable." "I shouldn't be this close to you." "Then why are you?" His hand paused on the table. He didn't look at me when he answered. "Because I can't help it." My heart tightened. I reached out, fingers brushing lightly against his sleeve. He inhaled sharply, almost flinching—not because he didn't want the touch, but because he wanted it too much. Slowly, painfully slowly, he sat down across from me. His knees brushed mine under the table. He didn't move away. "I told myself staying away would help," he said. "But the truth is… I think about you even more when you're not here." Heat spread across my chest. He looked down at his hands, as if ashamed of the confession. "This is wrong," he murmured. "I shouldn't want—" "Me?" He closed his eyes. "Yes." "Then what do you want me to do?" He swallowed. "I want you to stop looking at me the way you do." "How do I look at you?" "Like you're waiting for me to break," he said softly. "And I already am." The air grew heavy between us. A tension so fragile, one breath could shatter it. Then his phone vibrated. He stood quickly, using it as an excuse to escape. "I… I should get back to work." I watched him return behind the counter, posture stiff, ears faintly red. He was unraveling. Slowly. Quietly. And because of me.