The next few days passed without anything breaking.
That, Micheal would later realize, was what made them dangerous.
There were no arguments. No sharp words. No moment where someone stormed off or said something they couldn't take back. Life continued in the small, ordinary ways it always had—classes, lunch breaks, after-school routines.
Only now, there was space.
Micheal felt it most in the mornings. Teema still greeted him, still walked with him when their schedules lined up, but there were pauses where there hadn't been before. Small gaps in conversation where Daniel would naturally step in, filling them with stories or questions or observations that made Teema laugh.
Daniel wasn't trying to replace him.
He was just… present.
One afternoon, Micheal arrived at the library to find Teema already there. Daniel sat across from her, books spread out, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Oh, hey," Teema said, looking up. "We're just studying."
"Mind if I join?" Micheal asked.
"Of course not."
He pulled out a chair, but the dynamic had already formed. Daniel asked questions. Teema explained. Micheal listened, contributing when he could, but feeling slightly out of sync, like he'd joined a song halfway through.
When Daniel stepped away to take a call, Teema leaned toward Micheal.
"You've been quiet again," she said softly.
"Just thinking."
"You do that a lot lately."
He smiled faintly. "Occupational hazard."
She didn't laugh this time.
After school, Micheal walked alone again. He passed the football field, empty now, the grass flattened where cleats had torn it up days earlier. He wondered when he'd stopped inviting Teema to watch him practice.
Or maybe when he'd stopped believing she'd come.
That evening, Liana texted him.
> You going to the game next week?
He stared at the message, then replied.
> Yeah.
> Want company?
He hesitated longer this time.
> Maybe.
Across town, Teema sat on her bed, phone in hand. Daniel's name lit up her screen, followed by a message asking if she'd finished her assignment.
She replied quickly.
Then, almost without thinking, she opened Micheal's chat.
No new messages.
She set the phone down, an unfamiliar feeling settling in her chest—not guilt, not excitement. Just uncertainty.
The next day at school, Micheal caught Teema watching him from across the courtyard as he laughed at something Liana said. Their eyes met briefly. Teema looked away first.
At lunch, Teema sat beside Daniel. The empty seat across from them felt deliberate, though no one had said anything.
Micheal noticed.
He didn't move.
For the first time, he let the distance exist.
And in that quiet acceptance, something shifted—not ended, not broken—but stretched thin, like a thread pulled too far without snapping.
Sometimes, Micheal realized, losing someone didn't happen in a moment.
It happened in the space between one step forward and another person choosing not to follow.
---
Micheal decided—quietly—that if distance was forming, he wouldn't pretend not to notice it.
He just wouldn't dramatize it either.
The next morning, he waited for Teema by the lockers like he used to. Not because he was making a statement, but because he remembered how natural it once felt. When she rounded the corner and saw him, her expression shifted—surprise first, then something warmer.
"Hey," she said. "You're early."
"So are you," he replied.
She smiled and fell into step beside him. For a few minutes, it was just them again, the hallway noise fading into the background.
"I thought you'd already gone to class," she said.
"Nah. I wanted to walk with you."
She glanced at him, then looked forward again. "That's… nice."
Daniel joined them halfway down the hall, greeting them both easily. Micheal didn't step back this time. He stayed where he was, matching their pace.
At lunch, Micheal sat at the table without hesitation. No avoiding, no hovering. Just presence. He asked Teema about her day, listened when she answered, laughed when something was genuinely funny.
Daniel was there too. Micheal noticed the way Teema turned toward him when he spoke—but he also noticed that she still turned toward Micheal when she needed grounding, when the noise got too much, when she wanted something familiar.
That mattered.
After school, Micheal texted her before overthinking it.
> You free for a bit?
The reply came quickly.
> Yeah. What's up?
> Walk home?
There was a pause longer than usual.
> Okay.
They walked side by side, backpacks slung low, the late afternoon air cool against their skin. Cars passed, distant music drifted from open windows.
"You've been different," Teema said after a while.
"Different how?"
"More… intentional," she said, choosing her words carefully.
Micheal nodded. "I realized I don't want to drift."
She slowed slightly, then matched his pace again. "You don't have to compete, you know."
"I'm not," he said. "I'm just staying."
She looked at him then, really looked. "Staying is still a choice."
"I know."
They reached the corner where they usually split. Teema hesitated.
"Daniel invited me to study later," she said. "I told him I'd let him know."
Micheal didn't react right away. Then he said, "Okay."
"You're not upset?"
"No," he replied honestly. "Just… don't disappear."
Her lips parted slightly, like she hadn't expected that.
"I won't," she said.
That night, Micheal skipped the distractions. No extra practice. No background noise. He sat at his desk and wrote out a plan for the week—not to win anyone over, not to prove anything. Just to show up where it mattered.
The next day, he brought Teema her favorite drink without announcing it. The day after that, he waited when her class ran late. He asked questions and remembered the answers.
Small things. Steady things.
Teema noticed.
She started checking her phone less when she was with him. Started lingering a little longer before leaving. Started smiling at him in that way that wasn't automatic—like she was choosing the moment.
Daniel noticed too, though he didn't say anything. He simply stayed present, just as Micheal did.
And that was the strange part.
No one was fighting.
They were all just… choosing.
Micheal lay awake one night, staring at the ceiling, the familiar thought returning—but softer now.
If I stay, it might not be enough.
He accepted that.
But for the first time in a while, he also believed something else.
If I don't stay, I'll never know.
So he stayed.
Not louder.
Not harder.
Just enough to be unmistakably there.