The first time Ethan brought Lina pastries, it was a rainy Thursday.
She hadn’t asked for them. In fact, she hadn’t even mentioned she was having a rough day. But he showed up at her door anyway—socks slightly wet from the puddles, hoodie damp from the drizzle, a paper bag clutched in one hand, and a warm, sheepish grin on his face.
“I passed that little bakery you like,” he said. “Figured you could use something sweet.”
Lina blinked, standing in her doorway in worn sweatpants and a hoodie of her own. “Ethan… you didn’t have to.”
“I know,” he shrugged. “But you’ve looked tired lately. Thought it might help.”
She took the bag with shaky hands and tried not to look at him too long.
Inside were two almond croissants and a pain au chocolat—her favorites. He remembered.
He always remembered.
They ate in her kitchen with mismatched mugs of tea, Ethan perched on the edge of the counter, swinging his legs like he used to do in high school. Lina tried not to stare, not to memorize the way his jaw tightened when he laughed or how his eyes crinkled when she said something sarcastic.
“I fixed the lamp in your hallway, by the way,” he said casually, like it wasn’t a big deal.
“What?”
“Yeah. I noticed it was flickering the last time I came over. Just swapped out the wires. Should be good now.”
She stared at him, heart tugging painfully. “You’re... always doing that.”
“Doing what?”
She looked down. “Fixing things.”
Ethan didn’t respond right away. When she looked back up, he was watching her, something unreadable in his eyes.
“I like helping,” he said simply.
And Lina wanted to believe that was all it was. Just kindness. Just the way he was.
But it was never just anything when it came to him.
---
They ended up watching an old animated movie that night, something from their childhood that made them laugh until their cheeks ached. Ethan stayed until almost midnight, his arm resting on the back of the couch behind her, not quite touching her—but close.
Too close.
When he stood to leave, she walked him to the door. He paused before stepping out into the rain again.
“Take care of yourself, okay?”
“You too,” she whispered.
Then he was gone.
Lina closed the door softly and leaned against it, pastries forgotten on the coffee table.
It was always like this—little gestures, shared routines, old jokes recycled into newer meanings. It made her wonder if he even knew what he was doing to her.
Or worse—if he did, and still did it anyway.
---
Days passed in quiet ache.
They met up again on Sunday. Mira was there this time.
The three of them sat in a tiny ramen shop, shoulders brushing as they crammed into a booth. Mira reached for Ethan’s hand under the table. Lina saw it from the corner of her eye and suddenly forgot how to breathe.
Ethan smiled at Mira—soft, familiar, real.
And Lina smiled too, because she had to.
“Did you see that movie I recommended?” Mira asked Lina, taking a sip of her tea.
“Yeah. It was really good.”
“I thought of you while watching it,” Mira said with a smile. “The main girl’s a bit like you. Quiet but sharp. And secretly really brave.”
Lina laughed. “Secretly?”
“You know what I mean,” Mira nudged her playfully. “You’re the type who sneaks up on people with your kindness.”
Ethan nodded beside her. “That’s true.”
Lina’s heart flinched.
She tried to tune them out after that—focused on her noodles, counted the seconds between Mira’s laugh and Ethan’s reply. She reminded herself not to look at the way he glanced at Mira like she was the sun, not to hate the ache that bloomed every time he said her name with warmth.
When the bill came, Ethan reached for it first.
“I got it,” he said.
“Ethan,” Mira protested. “You paid last time.”
“I’ll get the next one,” Lina offered quickly, more out of politeness than confidence. She wasn’t sure there would be a next time.
Ethan smiled at her. “Deal.”
---
That night, Lina came home and sat at her desk, staring at a blinking cursor.
She opened her journal and started writing.
He remembers everything I love. My favorite snacks. The way I like my coffee. The songs I hum without realizing.
He shows up when I’m low, says just the right things without knowing what I need. Or maybe he does know. Maybe that’s the worst part.
He fixes things around my apartment, brings me pastries, texts me when it rains because he knows I hate thunderstorms.
But none of that means he loves me.
She stopped writing.
The pain was sharp. Real. Like holding glass in her hands and pretending it was soft.
She shut the journal and stared out the window, watching cars go by. Her apartment felt both too full and too empty.
The hardest part wasn’t that Ethan didn’t love her.
It was that he loved someone else—and still made room for her in ways that felt almost like love.
---
A week later, she got sick.
It was just a cold, but she felt miserable. Stuffed nose, sore throat, body aching. She texted work that she’d be staying home, then curled into her blanket cocoon with tea and tissues.
Around noon, the doorbell rang.
She dragged herself to the door, hair in a messy bun, sweater oversized and swallowing her small frame.
It was Ethan.
“I heard you weren’t feeling great,” he said, holding a paper bag and a bottle of ginger ale. “Thought I’d drop by.”
She blinked. “How did you—?”
“Mira told me. She saw your post.”
Lina hadn’t even realized she’d posted anything.
“You didn’t have to come,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said. “But I wanted to.”
He stepped inside, set the bag on the counter. Soup. Crackers. A small pouch of throat lozenges. She stared at the contents, then at him.
“You’re going to make it harder,” she said before she could stop herself.
“What?” he asked.
She looked away, her voice almost breaking. “Nothing. Just... thank you.”
He watched her for a moment, and the air between them shifted—thick with things unsaid.
“Lina,” he started.
She shook her head. “You should go. I need rest.”
His brows furrowed. “Okay. But text me if you need anything, alright?”
She nodded. “I will.”
He hesitated at the door like he wanted to say more.
Then left.
And Lina stood in the hallway long after he was gone, surrounded by the smell of chicken soup and the lingering warmth of someone she loved too much.
Someone who would never be hers.
