I didn't remember driving home.
—
The door closed behind me.
Shoes off.
Keys somewhere.
I didn't check.
—
I just walked to my room
—
and dropped onto the bed.
—
The ceiling looked the same.
Nothing had changed.
—
That was the problem.
—
I closed my eyes.
And this time
—
I didn't stop it.
—
I let him come back.
—
Not the silence.
Not the letter.
—
Him.
—
Christopher was never loud.
Not in the way people usually are.
—
He didn't fill space.
He didn't demand attention.
—
But somehow
—
he stayed.
—
Even when he said nothing.
—
It didn't happen all at once.
—
We didn't go from strangers to
—
this. .
—
It was slow.
Almost unnoticeable.
—
Sitting closer than before.
—
Talking a little longer than necessary.
—
Waiting
—
without saying we were waiting.
—
"You're doing it again."
—
His voice was quiet.
But familiar.
—
"Doing what?"
—
"Thinking too much."
—
I let out a small breath.
"…Says you."
—
A pause.
—
"…I don't think," he said softly.
"I just don't say things."
—
That made me look at him.
—
"Same difference."
—
He shook his head slightly.
"…Not really."
—
Silence settled between us.
But it wasn't uncomfortable.
Not anymore.
—
That was new.
—
"…Why do you stay?"
I asked suddenly.
—
He didn't look surprised.
—
"…You ask that a lot."
—
"Answer it, then."
—
A pause.
Longer this time.
—
"…Because it's quiet here."
—
I frowned.
"It's quiet everywhere with you.
—
"…Not like this."
—
I didn't understand what he meant.
—
Not then.
—
Maybe I still don't.
—
The memory shifted.
Softly.
—
We were closer.
—
Not just physically.
—
Something had changed.
—
I noticed it first.
Of course I did.
—
The way he looked at me
—
and then looked away too quickly.
—
The way his fingers tightened slightly—
when our hands brushed.
—
The way silence between us started to feel
—
heavy.
—
Like it was holding something.
—
"You're acting weird."
—
"I always act like this."
—
"…No."
—
A pause.
—
"…You don't."
—
He didn't respond.
—
That annoyed me.
—
"Christopher."
—
"…What?"
—
I leaned closer.
Not thinking.
—
"…Look at me."
—
He hesitated.
Just for a second.
—
Then he did.
—
Blue eyes.
Too clear.
Too honest.
—
"…What do you want?"
he asked quietly.
—
The question caught me off guard.
—
What did I want?
—
I didn't know.
—
Or maybe
—
I just didn't want to say it.
—
"…Nothing,"
I muttered.
—
A lie.
—
He knew it.
—
"…You shouldn't do that," he said softly.
—
"Do what?"
—
"Say things you don't mean."
—
My jaw tightened slightly.
—
"…And you should?" I shot back.
—
A pause.
—
"…No."
—
That was the problem.
—
Neither of us said anything.
—
The silence stretched.
Tighter.
—
Then
—
he moved.
—
Not away.
—
Closer.
Slow.
Careful.
Like he was giving me time to stop him.
—
I didn't.
—
His hand brushed mine.
Light.
Uncertain.
—
"…If you don't want this," he whispered
—
"tell me now."
—
My chest tightened.
—
I should've.
—
I didn't.
—
"…I'm not stopping you."
—
That was all it took.
—
He leaned in first.
—
Soft.
Hesitant.
—
Like he wasn't sure I was real.
—
Our lips barely touched.
—
For a second
—
nothing happened.
—
Then
—
everything did.
—
It wasn't perfect.
Not smooth.
Not practiced.
—
Just
—
real.
—
His breath caught slightly.
—
Mine did too.
—
And for the first time
—
Christopher didn't pull away immediately.
—
He stayed.
—
So did I.
—
The memory lingered.
Longer than the others.
—
Warmer.
—
Dangerous.
—
Because it felt like something that should've lasted.
—
But didn't.
—
I opened my eyes.
—
Back in my room.
Back in the present.
—
Empty.
—
My chest felt tight again.
—
"…Idiot,"
I muttered.
—
I wasn't sure if I meant him.
—
Or me.
—
Probably both.