The distance didn't arrive with a decision.
It arrived with schedules.
Mid-semester settled in with a quiet insistence. Assignments stacked themselves neatly, one after another, each demanding just enough attention to feel unavoidable. Group projects formed. Deadlines began to overlap. Opportunities appeared—not dramatically, but persistently—asking to be considered, responded to, acted on.
Time stopped feeling neutral.
She was busier now.
Not suddenly. Gradually. A meeting added here, an extra responsibility there. Things she cared about, things she had chosen. I could hear it in the way she talked about them—engaged, thoughtful, alive.
"I might not be free this week," she said one afternoon, already sounding apologetic.
"That's okay," I replied. And meant it.
The problem wasn't that we stopped seeing each other.
It was how easily we accepted it.
At first, the changes felt temporary. A missed lunch. A rescheduled evening. We adjusted without discussion, trusting that the space would close on its own.
It didn't.
Days passed where we only exchanged messages—short, practical, careful not to demand anything extra.
Long day today.
Same. Good luck tomorrow.
Thanks.
There was warmth there. Just not weight.
I began to notice how often I checked my calendar before messaging her now. How I waited for a clear opening, a reason that felt valid enough to take up her time.
Sometimes, by the time I decided, the moment had already passed.
Once, I suggested we meet after class.
She hesitated. Not long—just long enough to notice.
"I have a meeting," she said. "But maybe after?"
"Maybe" lingered between us.
Later came a message.
Sorry. It ran longer than expected.
I stared at the screen, then replied.
No worries.
I didn't add we'll do it another time.
Neither did she.
Academics pulled harder too.
My own classes grew more demanding. Professors expected more independence now—less guidance, more initiative. I spent longer hours on campus, not always productively, but unable to leave without feeling guilty.
Sometimes I saw her from a distance.
Across the quad.
Through the glass walls of a building.
Walking with people I didn't know.
We waved when we noticed each other. Smiled. Sometimes mouthed later.
Later became vague.
One evening, while studying alone, I realized I hadn't sat beside her in the library for over a week.
The thought startled me.
Not because it hurt immediately—but because I hadn't noticed sooner.
When we did meet, the moments felt compressed.
Short walks. Quick meals. Conversations trimmed to fit between obligations. We updated each other efficiently, like we were reporting rather than sharing.
She spoke about projects she was excited about. Opportunities she was considering. People who relied on her presence.
I listened. I was proud of her. I told her so.
"You don't mind?" she asked once, carefully.
"Why would I?"
She smiled, relieved.
That smile stayed with me longer than it should have.
Because I realized something uncomfortable:
she was asking permission.
And I was giving it too easily.
One night, we tried to study together again.
We sat across from each other this time, not beside. Books open. Laptops humming quietly. The space between us felt practical, unintentional.
After a while, she closed her notebook.
"I should head out," she said. "Early morning tomorrow."
"Yeah," I said. "Me too."
We packed in silence.
At the door, she hesitated.
"We should do something properly soon," she said. "When things calm down."
"Sure," I replied.
We both knew there was no clear point when that would happen.
As she walked away, I felt something settle—not sharply, not painfully. Just a quiet awareness that effort had begun to matter again.
Not effort to love.
Effort to meet.
That night, lying awake, I thought about how distance didn't always come from conflict. Sometimes it came from agreement—from two people deciding, again and again, that today wasn't the right day.
The outside world wasn't pulling us apart aggressively.
It was offering alternatives.
And we were both learning how easy it was to say yes to them without realizing what we were postponing.
The next morning, I passed the place where we used to wait for each other after class.
I didn't stop.
Not because I didn't want to.
Because there was somewhere else I needed to be.