She almost trusted me.
The realization doesn't arrive dramatically. There's no rush of heat, no sharp inhale, no cinematic moment of clarity. It settles instead—slow, invasive—like a fracture you don't feel until you move the wrong way.
Almost.
That's the word that matters.
Not love. Not attraction. Trust is quieter than both, more fragile, and infinitely more dangerous. Trust is the thing people give without realizing they've already lost leverage.
It happened upstairs.
In my room.
Not when she first stepped inside—she was guarded then, eyes cataloging exits, shoulders tight. Not when we sat across from each other on opposite ends of the desk, notebooks open, voices neutral.
It happened later.
After the work was done.
After the silence stretched long enough to feel intentional.
She sat on the floor with her back against my bed, knees pulled in, sweater sleeves half-swallowed by her hands. Not defensive. Not inviting.
Tired.
That was new.
"You don't ever stop," I'd said casually, more observation than question.
She'd shrugged. "People don't get to stop."
That alone should have been my cue to disengage.
Instead, I stayed.
And then she almost said it.
I remember the exact second. The way her fingers curled tighter into the fabric of her sleeve. The subtle shift in her breathing, like she was bracing herself against something internal.
"I don't usually…" she began.
Her voice wasn't shaky. That's what made it dangerous. It was steady in the way people get right before they step off a ledge.
I didn't interrupt.
I didn't encourage.
I stayed still and let the moment breathe.
Her eyes flicked up to mine—not defiant, not wary.
Checking.
That was the mistake. Mine or hers—I'm still not sure.
The silence grew heavy enough to become a presence between us.
Then she swallowed.
"Never mind," she said quietly.
Just like that, the door shut.
But it hadn't locked.
That's the part that stays with me now, hours later, standing in the dark of my room with the city lights bleeding in through the windows. Almost-trust leaves residue. It lingers. It makes you aware of what could be taken next.
I pace once. Then again.
This isn't how I operate.
People usually give themselves away quickly. A glance held too long. A tone that sharpens. A move made out of impatience. Control thrives on predictability.
Aylia isn't predictable.
She doesn't reach.
She doesn't angle.
She doesn't ask.
She simply exists under pressure and adapts, and tonight she let the mask slip just enough for me to see the strain underneath.
That's what my father saw too.
I hadn't missed it—the way he watched her in the kitchen, how his questions were careful, respectful. Where do you work? How late do you get home? Do you like school?
She answered honestly. Too honestly.
When she mentioned her second job, he frowned—not in judgment, but recognition.
After she left, he'd said it.
"She's strong."
Not impressed. Not indulgent.
Understanding.
"She reminds me of you," he added.
That should have irritated me. Comparisons always do. Instead, something uncomfortable tightened in my chest, sharp and unfamiliar.
Now the house is quiet.
My mother's presence has receded upstairs, leaving behind the familiar residue of disapproval. She barely looked at Aylia when she came in, her politeness clipped, her questions cold. I'd seen Aylia register it instantly—the subtle withdrawal, the polite retreat.
She's used to that kind of dismissal.
I lock my door.
Not because I'm afraid of interruption.
Because if my father knocks, he'll say her name.
And if he says it the way he did earlier—curious, thoughtful—I won't be able to dismiss it as a variable I can control.
My phone vibrates.
Marcus.
I don't check it right away. I let it buzz, then buzz again, until the sound itself becomes irritating.
Finally, I pick it up.
Marcus:You're changing.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
Me:You're projecting.
Three dots appear. Disappear.
Then:
Marcus:You don't let people this close.
That lands harder than it should.
I type back.
Me:She's a variable. I'm assessing.
The response is immediate.
Marcus:You're lying.
I don't answer.
Another vibration.
Marcus:You looked relieved tonight.
I stare at the screen.
Relief isn't the word I'd use.
Intrigue. Irritation. Anticipation.
Relief implies safety.
There is nothing safe about this.
I lock the phone and toss it onto the bed.
Marcus has always been good at noticing cracks. That's why I keep him at arm's length. Insight is inconvenient.
I move to the mirror and study my reflection.
Controlled posture. Neutral expression. Nothing visible.
That's the thing about restraint—it convinces people you don't feel anything at all.
They're wrong.
I know exactly what gentleness looks like. I was trained in it. Gentleness is tone. Space. Timing. Knowing when to ease pressure and when to let silence do the damage for you.
It's not the absence of control.
It's the refinement of it.
She responded to it tonight.
Not consciously.
That's worse.
If she opens that door again, it won't be because she was forced. It will be because she chose to believe the version of me I showed her.
And belief is leverage no one realizes they've surrendered until it's gone.
I sit on the edge of my bed and let my hands rest on my knees, grounding myself.
This is the line.
Pull back now, and she'll retreat into safety. She'll tell herself tonight was a mistake. That I'm exactly what she thought I was.
Lean in, and—
The thought finishes itself.
She almost trusted me.
Next time, she might.
And when she does, the balance shifts permanently.
I don't decide tonight.
I don't need to.
Something has already changed.
Not because I acted.
Because she almost did.
And once someone shows you where the door is—
You don't forget how to open it.