Chapter 14: Sleepless Night
(Mia Anderson's POV)
I didn't sleep.
I lay on my back with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling as if it might change if I watched it long enough. The faint hum of the heater filled the room, steady and dull, like a heartbeat I couldn't sync mine to.
The clock on my desk glowed 2:17 a.m.
I turned onto my side and faced the wall.
Snow tapped softly against the window, a sound so gentle it almost felt apologetic. Somewhere outside, the wind moved through the trees, carrying laughter from distant apartments—other people, other lives, other nights that didn't feel so heavy.
Mine did.
Every time I closed my eyes, he was there.
Not dramatic.
Just Evan.
Sitting on that bench like he belonged to ,the cold shoulders relaxed, posture calm, beautiful ocean blue eyes holding more than he'd ever let spill. Snow collecting silently around him, as if the world itself didn't want to disturb whatever fragile moment we'd been standing inside.
Mia—
The way he'd said my name stopped me all over again.
I pressed my lips together, breathing slowly, like I could control the memory if I handled it gently enough.
He'd almost said something.
I was sure of it.
The pause hadn't been empty. It had been full—too full. Like a glass filled right to the edge, trembling, waiting for the smallest movement to spill over.
And then he'd pulled back.
You should go inside.
The words replayed in my mind, quiet and careful, like he was protecting something. Or someone.
Me?
Or himself?
I rolled onto my stomach and buried my face into my pillow, gripping the fabric.
Why had I asked him that?
Why do you spend time with me?
The question sounded small now. Insecure. Like I'd been reaching for reassurance I didn't have the right to want.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
I wasn't that girl.
I didn't chase attention. I didn't cling. I didn't ask people to explain their feelings to me like they owed me clarity.
So why had it mattered so much that it was him?
The answer surfaced uninvited.
Because when Evan looked at me, it felt different.
Not warm. Not flirtatious.
Intent.
Like he saw more than the surface and didn't look away.
I turned onto my back again, staring at the ceiling once more.
The clock read 2:34 a.m.
My chest tightened.
I don't want to hurt you.
The words echoed louder now.
They didn't make sense.
Not from him.
He'd never been careless with me. Never harsh. Never distant in a way that felt dismissive. If anything, he was… gentle. Too controlled to be accidental.
"Hurt me how?" I whispered into the darkness.
The room didn't answer.
That was the worst part.
If he'd rejected me outright, I could have dealt with it. If he'd smiled and brushed it off, laughed it away, told me I was imagining things—
That would've hurt.
But this?
This uncertainty crawled under my skin and refused to leave.
I pushed myself up and sat against the headboard, pulling the blanket around my shoulders. The room smelled faintly of clean cotton and pine—the leftover scent from the small Christmas candle I'd blown out earlier.
I reached for my phone on instinct.
The screen lit up.
No messages.
No notifications.
No sudden text saying Sorry about earlier or I wanted to explain.
I don't know what I'd been hoping for.
Evan wasn't impulsive.
He wasn't the kind of person who said things without intention. If he'd stopped himself, it was because he meant to.
That thought made my throat ache.
I dropped the phone back onto the bed and hugged my knees.
Maybe I'd imagined the weight in the moment. Maybe the tension, the closeness, the almost-words—it could all be something I'd projected onto him.
People did that.
They mistook kindness for intimacy. Silence for mystery. Restraint for longing.
And I'd been tired.
Emotional.
Christmas did that to people.
I let out a slow breath.
You're not fragile, I'd told him.
I believed it.
But lying alone in the dark, with nothing but my thoughts and the slow steady passing of time, I felt fragile anyway.
Not weak.
Just… open.
I wondered if he was awake.
The thought slipped into my mind so quietly it took a moment to realize it was there.
Was Evan lying in his own room, staring at his ceiling too?
Was he replaying the same moment?
Or had he already closed the door on it, tucked it away with the rest of the things he never let surface?
The idea that I might be the only one carrying this made my chest tighten painfully.
I swallowed and shifted again, trying to get comfortable, trying to escape my own thoughts.
Outside, the snow fell harder now, the soft taps against the glass becoming a gentle rhythm. By morning, everything would be white and clean, like the world had decided to start over.
I wondered if people could do that too.
Start over.
Forget the almosts.
The what-ifs.
The way his eyes had changed when I'd said I felt like he was far away.
He hadn't denied it.
That haunted me more than any confirmation could have.
I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling my heartbeat under my palm.
"I didn't do anything wrong," I murmured.
The words sounded small in the empty room.
I hadn't crossed a line.
I hadn't confessed.
I hadn't asked for anything unreasonable.
I'd just… noticed him.
And let myself be seen.
My fingers curled into the blanket.
If he didn't want me to get closer, he should have made it clearer.
He should have been colder. Distant. Polite in a way that closed doors instead of opening them.
Instead, he'd looked at me like someone afraid of causing damage just by existing too close.
That look had stayed with me.
That sorrow.
That restraint.
As if he already knew how something would end and was trying to soften the blow before it arrived.
The thought settled heavily in my chest.
I shifted again, finally lying on my side, facing the window. Snow blurred the outside world into white and silver streaks.
The clock read 3:12 a.m.
Tomorrow—or rather, later today—things would go back to normal. Classes. Conversations. The quiet, careful distance Evan always kept.
I wondered if he'd look at me differently now.
Or worse—
If he'd pull back completely.
The idea made my stomach twist.
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe evenly.
Whatever he was hiding, it wasn't indifference.
I was sure of that.
And somehow, that scared me more than if he'd simply told me he didn't feel the same.
Because indifference ended things cleanly.
This—
This felt like standing at the edge of something neither of us was ready to name.
As the night stretched on and the snow continued to fall, one quiet truth settled deep in my chest, heavy and undeniable:
Whatever Evan was running from…
I was standing far too close to it.
And I didn't know whether to step back—
Or hope he'd finally turn around.
And as the hours crept toward morning,
I stared at the ceiling as the first hint of dawn pressed faintly against the edges of the night. Wondering,
If he ever stopped holding back...