That night, the city felt unusually quiet, as if the streets themselves were listening. I walked out of his apartment building, the cold brushing against my skin the moment the door clicked shut behind me. I hadn't looked back—mostly because I knew I would crumble if I did. But I heard it. The faint sound of the door opening again. A soft exhale that didn't belong to me. My legs slowed but didn't stop. I didn't dare turn around. I didn't trust myself not to run back into his arms. And I didn't trust him not to let me.
The air felt strangely heavy, pressing against my spine as if urging me to look. I didn't. Instead, I walked to the sidewalk and forced my breathing to steady. My phone buzzed once in my pocket, soft and almost apologetic. I didn't check it until I reached the corner, safely away from the orbit of his presence.
Him: Get home safe.
Just four words, simple, controlled—too controlled. I could almost hear how tightly he must have been holding himself together when he typed them. Because thirty minutes earlier, in his kitchen, he hadn't looked controlled at all. His hand had hovered near my face, trembling just enough for me to notice. His voice had broken on my name. And his eyes… his eyes had told me everything he never would.
I typed back slowly.
Me: I will. Don't worry.
The three dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then nothing. I imagined him standing there, leaning on the counter, jaw tight, phone in hand, fighting himself. Because if he hit "send," something between us would shift again—something he wasn't ready to acknowledge.
I walked all the way back to my dorm with the phantom memory of his gaze still lingering on the back of my neck. The building hallway was bright, loud, familiar. It made the contrast sharper. Everything about him was quieter, heavier, too intimate in ways I never expected to crave. I fell onto my bed without changing clothes, staring up at the ceiling. I replayed the moment his fingers brushed mine when he handed me my scarf. He had pulled back so sharply, as if burned. And yet he had followed me to the door. And opened it again after I left.
He didn't call me, but I knew—some part of him had almost done it. Some part of him had wanted me to turn around. Some part of him had hoped I wouldn't. I pressed my palm over my chest, trying to steady my heartbeat. It didn't work. Because I could still hear the sound of the door opening behind me. And the silence of him choosing not to call out my name.
I slept with my phone in my hand that night, waiting for a message he never sent.
But the next morning, I woke to one.
Him: Are you free tonight? We need to talk.
My breath caught. Because "talk" never meant only talking—not with him. Not anymore.