I didn't breathe properly until Keifer walked away.
Even then, my chest felt tight—like the air around me hadn't decided whether to stay or leave.
You're mine.
The words echoed in my head, over and over, louder than they had sounded when he said them.
I hated that part of me reacted before my mind did.
Hated that my hands were still trembling when I shoved them into my bag.
"What was that?" I muttered to myself.
Kiko tried to say something—some joke, some excuse—but I barely heard it.
"I need some air," I said quickly, standing up.
I didn't wait for a response.
I walked. Fast. Past the quad, past the library, anywhere that wasn't there—anywhere I didn't have to feel Keifer's eyes on me.
Anger came first.
Who did he think he was? Asking me questions like that. Saying things like that. Acting like my choices revolved around him.
I wasn't his responsibility. I wasn't something to guard. I wasn't—
My steps slowed.
Confusion crept in next.
Because the truth was… Keifer hadn't touched me. Hadn't shouted. Hadn't humiliated me in front of anyone.
He had stepped back.
Even when his control slipped, he'd still chosen distance.
That made it worse.
I leaned against the cool wall near the staircase, closing my eyes.
If he had been cruel, I could've hated him easily.
If he had been careless, I could've walked away.
But he wasn't.
He was careful to the point of hurting himself.
And somehow, that made me feel cornered anyway.
I spotted him later, near the parking lot.
He was alone.
Of course he was.
Head down. Hands in his pockets. Not looking for me. Not following.
That stung more than it should have.
I walked toward him before I could stop myself.
"Keifer."
He looked up immediately.
Always immediately.
"What you said earlier," I began, forcing my voice to stay steady, "you don't get to say things like that."
"I know," he replied quietly. No argument. No defense.
That annoyed me.
"You don't get to decide what I am to you," I continued. "Or who I talk to. Or what that means."
"I'm not deciding," he said. "I'm telling you what I feel."
"Well, don't," I snapped. "Because it's confusing."
He nodded once. "I know."
"Stop saying that," I said sharply. "You can't just keep understanding and expect it to fix things."
Something shifted in his expression—not anger, not frustration.
Resignation.
"Then tell me what you want," he said softly.
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because the truth was, I didn't know.
I wanted him close—but not like that. I wanted space—but not his absence. I wanted honesty—but not words that made my heart race when I wasn't ready.
"I want you to stop looking at me like that," I said finally.
"Like what?"
"Like I already belong to you."
His jaw tightened.
"I'll try," he said after a moment. "But I won't lie to you."
"That's not fair," I whispered.
"No," he agreed. "It isn't."
Silence stretched between us again.
I hated how safe it felt. I hated how much I wanted to step closer.
So I did the only thing I could to protect myself.
"I need space," I said.
He didn't hesitate.
"Okay."
Just like that.
No protest. No guilt. No chasing.
He stepped back.
I should've felt relief.
Instead, my chest ached as I walked away.
Because pushing him back was easy.
What scared me was how much I already missed him— even when he was still standing right there.