(--___---)
(Kiara)
Kiara noticed the distance before she named it.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't announced.
It arrived quietly—like a chair pulled back without a sound.
Shane stopped coming by after closing.
He still answered texts. Still checked in. Still watched from afar, she was sure of it. But the warmth of his presence—the steady calm that had begun to feel like part of the café—was suddenly missing.
And absence, she was learning, had weight.
The city inspection continued. Paperwork multiplied. Customers asked careful questions with polite smiles. Support came wrapped in hesitation.
Kiara handled all of it.
What she didn't handle well was the silence.
She told herself it was necessary.
That Shane was protecting her.
That this was maturity, not retreat.
But late at night, alone with the hum of the refrigerator and the scrape of her own thoughts, another possibility crept in.
What if he's pulling away?
The thought settled deeper than she liked.
She didn't text him that night.
Or the next.
She waited.
Three days later, she saw him across campus.
He was standing with two men in tailored coats, posture composed, expression unreadable. Business. Power. The world he came from.
He didn't see her at first.
And she didn't approach him.
She stood there, watching, as he laughed—quietly, briefly—at something one of them said.
The sound surprised her.
It shouldn't have hurt.
It did.
That evening, Eleanor cornered her outside the lecture hall.
"You're distracted," Eleanor said flatly.
"I'm managing," Kiara replied.
"No," Eleanor corrected. "You're unraveling quietly. That's worse."
Kiara crossed her arms. "What do you want?"
Eleanor hesitated. Then, surprisingly, said, "The platform flagged another spike in engagement."
Kiara stiffened. "Threats?"
"Speculation," Eleanor replied. "About him."
Of course.
"They think you're being strategic," Eleanor continued. "That the distance is staged."
Kiara's chest tightened.
"So now I'm calculated?" she asked.
Eleanor studied her. "You're underestimated. Don't let them decide what that means."
That night, Kiara didn't go home.
She walked.
The city felt different lately—less forgiving, more alert.
When she reached the quiet street near Shane's building, she stopped.
She hadn't planned to come.
But she was tired of guessing.
She texted him.
Kiara: Are you busy?
The reply came almost immediately.
Shane: No.
She exhaled.
Kiara: Can we talk?
A pause.
Then:
Shane: Yes. I'm coming down.
When he stepped outside, she almost lost her resolve.
He looked the same.
Too composed. Too steady.
And suddenly, very far away.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Hey."
Silence stretched.
Not awkward.
Loaded.
"I saw you today," she said finally.
His brow furrowed. "I didn't see you."
"I know."
She hadn't meant for that to sound like accusation.
It did anyway.
"I wasn't avoiding you," he said carefully.
"You were," she replied just as carefully.
He held her gaze. "I was creating space."
"For me?" she asked. "Or for you?"
The question landed.
He exhaled slowly. "For you."
She shook her head. "You don't get to decide that alone."
"I wasn't trying to," he said. "I was trying not to make things worse."
"And did you think," she asked quietly, "that disappearing wouldn't hurt?"
His jaw tightened.
"I thought you'd understand."
"I did," she said. "Until it started feeling like something else."
"Like what?"
"Like you were stepping back from me."
The truth sat between them.
Uncomfortable.
Necessary.
"I'm afraid," he admitted.
She blinked. "Of what?"
"Of becoming the reason they discredit you," he said. "Of touching your life and leaving fingerprints you can't erase."
Her voice softened. "Shane… I didn't ask you to vanish."
"I know."
"I asked you to stay honest."
He nodded once. "I'm learning how."
She stepped closer—not touching, just closing the space.
"You don't protect me by leaving," she said. "You protect me by trusting me."
His eyes searched hers.
"And you?" he asked. "What do you want from me?"
The answer rose easily.
"Clarity," she said. "Presence. Even if it's quiet."
He was silent for a long moment.
Then he said, "I can do quiet."
Relief loosened something in her chest.
"Good," she said. "Because loud would ruin us."
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"Can I walk you home?" he asked.
"Yes."
They walked side by side.
Not touching.
But closer.
At her door, she hesitated.
"So," she said. "We're not stepping back."
"No," he replied. "We're stepping carefully."
She smiled. "That sounds like us."
He reached out—slow, deliberate—and brushed his thumb against her hand.
Not a kiss.
Not a promise.
But something steadier.
"I'm here," he said.
This time, she believed him.
And when she closed the door behind her, Kiara realized something important:
Love didn't always arrive as heat or certainty.
Sometimes it arrived as clarity after confusion.
As presence after absence.
As two people choosing—again—to walk forward together.
Slowly.
💝