Elior had always believed distance was safe.
Distance meant control. Distance meant he could decide how much of himself to reveal and when to disappear. It had protected him for years—kept his heart intact by never allowing it to reach too far.
But now, distance felt like punishment.
Mira stopped sitting next to him.
Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just… gradually. She still smiled when she saw him. Still greeted him with a soft "Hey." But she no longer turned around in class. She no longer waited beneath the oak tree.
She respected the space he created.
And that somehow hurt more than if she had been angry.
Elior watched her from afar, a quiet ache settling in his chest. She laughed with other students now. Joined different lunch tables. Her presence still warmed the room—but it no longer reached him.
He told himself it was for the best.
This was how things were supposed to be.
So why did it feel like something essential had been taken from him?
---
One afternoon, rain began to fall without warning. Students scattered across the courtyard, umbrellas opening like sudden flowers. Elior stood under the overhang near the exit, watching the rain streak down in silver lines.
He saw Mira across the yard.
She stood alone, no umbrella, rain soaking into her hair and clothes as she searched her bag with growing frustration. People rushed past her without stopping.
Without thinking, Elior stepped forward.
The moment he realized what he was doing, he froze.
Don't, his mind warned. You chose distance.
But his body kept moving.
He pulled off his jacket and walked toward her.
"Mira," he called.
She looked up, surprised. "Elior?"
He held out the jacket. "You'll get sick."
For a second, she didn't take it. She just looked at him—really looked at him—with something like relief and something like sadness mixed together.
Then she accepted it.
"Thank you," she said softly.
They stood there under the rain, inches apart, neither quite ready to step away.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," he said suddenly.
Her eyes widened slightly.
"I just—" He struggled for words. "I don't know how to be close to someone without losing myself."
Mira wrapped the jacket tighter around her shoulders. "You don't lose yourself by being seen," she said. "You only lose yourself by pretending you don't matter."
He flinched.
She sighed. "I wasn't trying to rush you. I just wanted to be there."
"I know."
"Then why did you leave?"
He had no answer that didn't sound like fear.
---
They walked together to the bus stop, sharing the narrow shelter as rain drummed overhead. The silence between them was heavy but not hostile.
"I don't need you to be perfect," Mira said eventually. "I just need you to be honest."
Elior stared at the wet pavement. "I'm afraid if you see all of me, you'll change your mind."
She met his gaze. "I'm afraid you'll never let me try."
The bus arrived, breaking the moment.
She handed him back the jacket. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said.
Not if.
When.
---
That night, Elior lay awake again, but this time the ache was sharper.
He realized something he had tried desperately to ignore.
He missed her.
Not just her presence—but the way she made the world feel less heavy. The way she listened without judgment. The way she saw him without asking him to be someone else.
Distance had not protected him.
It had only made the loss clearer.
---
The next day, he sat beneath the oak tree alone, staring at the empty space beside him.
When Mira approached, he stood.
"I don't want to keep pushing you away," he said before fear could stop him. "But I don't know how to do this right."
Mira's expression softened.
"We learn," she said. "Together. Or not at all."
He nodded, heart pounding.
For the first time, he didn't choose distance.
He chose the space between them—and stepped into it.
---