The morning arrived without ceremony.
No messages.
No missed calls.
No sign that the night before had meant anything beyond what it was.
I woke to sunlight slipping through the curtains and the familiar weight of routine settling back onto my chest. My body felt rested—something rare—but my mind was careful, already rearranging boundaries.
Last night had not been permission.
It had been rest.
And rest was not an invitation.
At work, everything returned to its predictable rhythm. Indah chatted about sales targets and new arrivals. The supervisor hovered, correcting hangers and displays with quiet precision. Customers came and went, their reflections blending into the mirrors lining the walls.
And yet—
I felt watched.
Not followed.
Not disturbed.
Just… noticed.
During lunch, Indah leaned closer. "You've been quiet today."
"I'm just tired," I said.
She tilted her head, studying me. "You look lighter."
I didn't answer.
Some things felt dangerous once spoken aloud.
The rest of the day passed without incident. No sudden meetings. No unexpected appearances. When evening came, I left the boutique alone, walking at a measured pace toward the parking lot.
My scooter waited where I had left it.
So did my relief.
Halfway home, my phone vibrated.
Ammar.
I let it ring.
Then again.
I pulled over near a small convenience store and answered on the third call.
"Yes?" My voice was calm. Neutral.
"I just wanted to check if you got home safely," he said quickly. "That's all."
"I did," I replied. "Thank you."
Silence stretched between us.
"I won't come by again," he added. "Not unless you ask."
That mattered.
"Good," I said. "That's how it should be."
"I understand," he answered.
I ended the call.
My hands didn't shake this time.
At home, I cooked a simple meal and ate alone at the small table my grandmother had once insisted on buying. I washed the dishes, wiped the counter, folded laundry that had been sitting untouched for days.
Order had always been my defense.
That night, I didn't cry.
I didn't replay memories.
I didn't wonder what if.
I slept—normally.
The next few days unfolded quietly.
Ammar kept his distance.
No surprise visits.
No lingering looks.
No attempts to cross the line I had drawn.
Occasionally, a message arrived—short, careful.
Have a good day.
Take care.
I replied when I felt like it. Briefly. Kindly. Without encouragement.
At work, I focused harder. Took extra shifts. Volunteered to close. The familiar exhaustion returned—and with it, a sense of control.
One afternoon, as I locked the boutique's door, Indah nudged my arm.
"You know," she said lightly, "it's okay to be interested in someone."
I looked at her. "Interest isn't the problem."
She studied my face. "Then what is?"
I thought of betrayal.
Of trust collapsing without warning.
Of how easy it was to lose yourself while trying to hold onto someone else.
"Hope," I answered.
She didn't press further.
That night, as I prepared for bed, my phone buzzed again.
A single message from Ammar.
I won't wait if you don't want me to. I just needed you to know that.
I stared at the screen longer than necessary.
Then I typed back.
I don't want promises. And I won't offer any.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared.
Understood, he replied.
I placed the phone face down.
The distance remained.
And for the first time, I realized something quietly unsettling—
keeping someone away required as much strength
as letting them in.