It happened on a Tuesday—quiet and unremarkable, the kind of day that wouldn’t be remembered by anyone but Lina.
She hadn’t been sleeping well. The pressure at work had doubled, her deadlines tightened, and the weight of emotions she never voiced pressed harder with each passing day. That morning, her manager criticized her presentation in front of the entire team. It was minor. She told herself it was nothing. But by the time she got home, the walls were caving in.
Her phone buzzed.
Ethan: You okay?
She didn’t remember texting him, but maybe she had. Or maybe he just knew.
Lina: No.
She expected nothing. But twenty minutes later, her doorbell rang.
Ethan stood there, hoodie slightly damp from the rain, holding a small bag of groceries and a soft expression. “Made you soup. Well, tried to.”
Lina blinked back the sting behind her eyes. “You didn’t have to come.”
“I wanted to.”
He stepped inside and began unpacking things like he belonged there—like he always did. And she let him.
They sat on her couch, legs close but not touching, the quiet humming between them. She barely tasted the soup. Her chest felt tight, her breaths shallow.
“Lina?” he said, noticing her hands trembling. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered, but her vision blurred at the edges.
“No, you’re not.” His voice was gentle. “Breathe with me, okay?”
She felt his hand slide over hers, warm and steady. She tried to focus on that—the feeling of his skin against hers, the steady rhythm of his breath.
But it was too much.
All at once, the tears came. She turned her face, ashamed, but he didn’t let go. He held her hand tighter, grounding her.
“I’m sorry,” she choked out.
“Don’t be.” His fingers brushed her knuckles. “You don’t always have to be strong.”
She turned toward him slowly, eyes red-rimmed, chest still heaving. “Why do you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Take care of me.”
He looked confused, like the answer should be obvious. “Because you matter.”
Her gaze lingered on his face—so close. His eyes held a softness she couldn’t bear. Her heart moved first.
She leaned in.
Just enough.
Close enough to feel the breath between them still warm from the soup. Her lips didn’t touch his, but they hovered too close—close enough for what could have been mistaken as a moment.
Then Ethan pulled back. A sharp inhale. A pause.
“I—I shouldn’t…” he said quickly, letting go of her hand.
Lina recoiled, heat flooding her cheeks. “I wasn’t— I’m sorry.”
He stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to lead you on. I didn’t know you felt…”
“You didn’t know?” she asked, voice cracking. “Ethan, you’re always here. You show up, you care, you remember everything.”
He closed his eyes, guilt painting his expression. “I thought I was being a friend.”
“Then maybe I need a different kind of friend.”
Silence wrapped around them like ice. He didn’t move. Neither did she.
Eventually, Ethan picked up his hoodie and walked to the door. “I’m sorry, Lina.”
She didn’t answer. The door clicked shut behind him, and she stood in the echo of everything they didn’t say.
---
Chapter 6: Distance by Inches
Lina left the next morning.
No note. No announcement. She packed a small suitcase, turned off her phone, and caught a train to the coast. She told herself it wasn’t running—it was breathing. It was remembering who she was before Ethan became her gravity.
She found a small guesthouse near the sea and spent her days wandering through markets, reading on quiet benches, sketching the waves. Her journal remained closed for once. She didn’t want to write about him. Not this time.
At night, she lay in bed and replayed the moment his hand slipped from hers. The apology. The space between them.
Was it rejection or regret?
But she didn’t call. And neither did he.
---
Back in the city, Ethan noticed her absence like a missing button on a favorite coat. Small, quiet, but maddeningly obvious.
He stopped by her place once. Knocked. Waited. No answer.
He asked Eliza where she’d gone.
“She needed space,” Eliza said, crossing her arms. “And maybe you did too.”
Ethan didn’t argue. He just nodded.
Mira noticed too.
“You’ve been distracted,” she said one evening as they sat on her balcony. “More than usual.”
Ethan didn’t answer right away.
“She’s gone, isn’t she?” Mira asked.
“Just for a while.”
Mira looked at him carefully. “Do you love her?”
He flinched. “I don’t know.”
“That’s the problem,” Mira said gently. “You don’t know. But she does.”
Ethan didn’t sleep well that night.
---
On the fourth day, Lina stood at the water’s edge, wind tugging her hair, salt kissing her skin. She thought about all the versions of love she’d seen—loud, messy, soft, certain.
What she had with Ethan wasn’t love in the way people spoke about it.
It was love in fragments. In quiet favors. In stolen glances.
In almosts.
And almosts didn’t keep you warm.
---
When she returned to the city, everything felt quieter. Her apartment looked untouched. She checked her phone—no missed calls. One message from Ethan, sent two days ago.
Ethan: I hope you’re okay.
She didn’t reply.
Instead, she sat by her window, lit a candle, and wrote in her journal.
Dear Ethan,
I’m sorry too.
But this ache I carry isn’t your fault. It’s mine—for hoping, for misreading, for holding on to something that never really belonged to me.
I’m learning now. To step away. To breathe without waiting for your call.
Maybe one day, I’ll thank you for the silence. Maybe it’s what I needed most.
She closed the journal and finally—finally—let herself exhale.
