Chapter 15: The Space Between Us
(Evan Carter POV)
Morning didn't soften anything.
If anything, daylight sharpened the edges.
The snow from last night still covered the campus in a clean, blinding white, untouched and pristine, like it was trying to erase whatever had happened after dark. Sunlight reflected off it harshly, forcing people to squint as they walked, laughter and conversation returning as if the world had agreed—silently—to move on.
I didn't.
I noticed her before I meant to.
Mia was standing near the steps outside the lecture hall, phone in hand, hair pulled back loosely, scarf wrapped twice around her neck. She looked the same as always. Calm. Put together. Normal.
Except something was… off.
She didn't look around the way she usually did.
Didn't search.
Didn't linger.
She was facing forward, shoulders slightly tense, like someone bracing against wind that hadn't arrived yet.
I slowed without thinking.
That was a mistake.
She looked up.
For a fraction of a second, something crossed her face—surprise, maybe. Or instinct. The kind you couldn't fake or stop in time.
Then it vanished.
Replaced by something polite.
"Hey," she said.
The word was light. Casual.
Too careful.
"Morning," I replied.
Formal. Distant.
I heard it immediately and hated that I couldn't take it back.
We stood there, facing each other while the rest of the world moved around us. Someone brushed past me, mumbling an apology. Another group laughed loudly behind her. The air smelled like cold metal and coffee.
Mia shifted her weight.
Just slightly.
It wasn't much.
But I noticed.
She used to lean in when she talked to me. Not obviously. Not dramatically. Just enough to close space without thinking about it.
Now, she didn't.
"How was your night?" she asked.
A normal question.
A dangerous one.
"Quiet," I said.
True. In the most useless way possible.
She nodded. "That's good."
Her smile appeared then—small, controlled. The kind you gave classmates. The kind that didn't ask anything of the other person.
Not the one from last night.
I felt the distance settle between us like a physical thing.
"You heading in?" I asked, gesturing toward the lecture hall.
"Yeah. I didn't want to be late."
She didn't say again.
She didn't say with you.
She didn't say anything unnecessary at all.
We walked inside together, but not side by side.
Half a step apart.
It was ridiculous how loud that half-step felt.
Inside, the lecture hall buzzed with low conversation. Students shuffled to their seats, bags hitting the floor, chairs scraping softly. Mia chose a seat two rows down, near the aisle.
She didn't look back to see where I sat.
I took a seat farther away than usual.
The professor started talking. Slides changed. Notes were taken.
I absorbed none of it.
Instead, I watched her.
Not obviously. Not enough to be noticed.
Mia listened intently, chin resting lightly on her hand, pen moving across her notebook. She didn't fidget. Didn't check her phone. Didn't glance around the room.
She looked focused.
Closed.
Calm.
I realized then that restraint didn't erase moments.
It only delayed their consequences.
When the lecture ended, she packed up quickly. Efficient. Purposeful.
I stood as she did, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
"Mia," I said.
She paused.
Turned.
"Yes?"
That single word carried distance in it. Not hostility. Not anger.
Boundaries.
"I—" I stopped.
Careful.
Too careful.
"Are you okay?"
She studied my face for a moment. Really looked this time, like she was checking something against memory.
"I'm fine," she said.
Another polite smile.
That felt too distant.
"I'll see you later."
It wasn't a question.
She didn't wait for my answer.
I watched her walk away, posture straight, pace steady, never once looking back.
Something cold settled behind my ribs. I felt a dull pain in my chest.
I had chosen silence.
Now I was living inside it.
(Mia Anderson POV)
I didn't look back.
If I did, I knew I wouldn't keep walking.
The hallway felt longer than usual, like the walls had shifted overnight. I focused on the sound of my own footsteps, the weight of my bag, the familiar rhythm of moving forward.
Don't read into it.
That was what I kept telling myself.
Morning had been clear. Bright. Logical.
Night had been the problem.
I replayed his voice anyway.
Quiet.
The way he'd said it. Calm. Neutral. Safe.
Like nothing had happened.
Like the bench hadn't existed.
Like he hadn't almost said my name differently.
I hated how relieved I felt that he'd noticed something was wrong.
I hated even more that I'd hoped he wouldn't.
Distance was easier if only one person felt it.
I reached the courtyard and stopped, letting the cold air hit my face. Snow crunched under my boots as students passed by, laughing, talking about nothing important.
I wondered if this was how it started.
Not with an argument.
Not with rejection.
But with silence slowly learning your shape.
I pulled my scarf tighter and took a breath.
I wasn't angry.
That was the problem.
If I'd been angry, I could have burned the moment down and walked away clean.
Instead, I felt… careful.
Like someone who'd learned where the cracks in the ice were and adjusted their steps.
I hadn't imagined it.
I was sure of that now.
Evan hadn't looked indifferent.
He'd looked afraid.
And knowing that made everything worse.
Because fear meant there was something there.
Something real enough to run from.
I exhaled slowly, watching my breath fade into the air.
Fine!.
If he wanted distance, I could do that.
I'd done it before.
I straightened my shoulders and kept walking, already practicing the version of myself that didn't linger, didn't lean in, didn't ask questions she might not want the answers to.
But even as I moved forward, one thought stayed stubbornly behind, refusing to be left in the snow:
If he was this careful with me…
Then whatever he was hiding had teeth.
And I was already close enough to get hurt.