17: Close Enough to Confuse
Friday night.
The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the heater.
I was on the couch, flipping through my notes, trying to focus, but my mind kept drifting to Alex.
He appeared carrying a small tray with two cups of tea.
"Here… thought you might need this," he said softly, placing one beside me.
Our fingers brushed as I took the cup, and my chest immediately tightened.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he lingered, sitting just a little closer than before, our shoulders nearly touching.
I felt a pang of nervousness.
Was I imagining this? Was he… trying to be close?
"I… thanks," I whispered, trying to sound casual.
Alex tilted his head, watching me, a soft, unreadable expression on his face.
"You've been quiet today," he murmured.
"Something on your mind?"
I hesitated.
"I… maybe I'm overthinking things," I admitted, avoiding his gaze.
His hand brushed mine lightly again, not enough to hold, but enough to make my pulse race.
"I don't think you're overthinking," he said softly.
"Sometimes… feelings just sneak up on us."
I looked at him, heart hammering.
The warmth, the closeness, the quiet intensity—it was dizzying.
"Alex…" I started, but the words caught in my throat.
He leaned slightly closer, shoulder brushing mine, voice low and calm.
"Shh… it's okay. You don't have to say it."
The apartment felt smaller, warmer.
Every brush of his hand, every shift in posture made my heart ache and my thoughts spiral.
We were close. Too close.
And I wasn't sure how much longer I could pretend it didn't matter.
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