Distance didn't arrive suddenly.
It slipped in quietly, like dust settling on furniture no one used anymore.
Ethan noticed it first in the mornings.
Earlier, Lily would already be in the kitchen when he came downstairs—coffee brewing, radio humming softly. Now, the kitchen was often empty. If she was there, she kept herself busy, her back turned, movements efficient and careful.
"Morning," he would say.
"Morning," she would reply.
Nothing more.
No lingering looks.
No unnecessary words.
And that hurt more than he expected.
Mark, on the other hand, seemed unusually relaxed now that he was home more often. He talked endlessly about work, about future plans, about things Ethan barely listened to.
The house felt full again.
Yet somehow emptier.
Ethan threw himself into college work.
Long hours at the library. Group projects he volunteered for without thinking. Evenings spent studying until his eyes burned.
If he stayed busy enough, maybe his mind would cooperate.
It didn't.
Every quiet moment betrayed him.
The memory of Lily's hand gripping his sleeve during the storm replayed itself in his head like a scene he couldn't skip. The way she had stepped back afterward, as if afraid of herself.
Some lines exist for a reason.
Her words echoed relentlessly.
He understood what she meant.
He just hated how right she was.
Lily coped differently.
She reorganized the house—again.
Closets that didn't need sorting, shelves that were already neat. She cleaned until her hands ached, just to keep them busy.
When Mark noticed, he laughed it off.
"You've been restless lately," he said one evening, loosening his tie. "Need a vacation?"
She smiled politely. "Maybe."
But vacations didn't fix what she was running from.
At night, when the house finally settled, Lily lay awake staring at the ceiling, listening for sounds from the hallway. Not because she wanted Ethan to come out—but because part of her feared what would happen if he did.
Distance was necessary.
Distance was safe.
Distance was unbearable.
A week passed like that.
Then another.
The tension didn't disappear. It sharpened.
One evening, Mark announced he'd be traveling again for work.
"Three days," he said, grabbing his suitcase. "Back before you know it."
Lily nodded, forcing a smile. "Drive safe."
Ethan stood near the stairs, pretending to check his phone.
The door closed behind Mark with a familiar finality.
Silence rushed in.
The house exhaled.
They stood there awkwardly, neither sure who should move first.
"I'm going to the kitchen," Lily said finally.
"Yeah," Ethan replied. "I… I'll be in my room."
They went in opposite directions.
Both relieved.
Both disappointed.
That night, Ethan couldn't sleep.
Again.
He stared at the dark ceiling, listening to the rhythm of the house. At some point, he heard Lily's door open softly. Footsteps moved toward the kitchen.
Before he could stop himself, he sat up.
Don't, he told himself.
But his feet were already on the floor.
He stepped into the hallway just as Lily returned, holding a glass of water. She froze when she saw him.
"Oh," she said. "Sorry. Did I wake you?"
"No," he replied. "I was already up."
Silence.
Thick. Awkward.
She gestured slightly with the glass. "Couldn't sleep."
"Me neither."
They stood there, a few feet apart, like strangers who knew too much about each other.
"Ethan," Lily said quietly, "we shouldn't—"
"I know," he interrupted, then immediately regretted it. "I mean… I know."
She studied his face, searching for something.
"This isn't fair to you," she said. "You didn't ask for any of this."
He laughed softly, without humor. "Neither did you."
"That doesn't make it right."
"No," he agreed. "It doesn't."
Another pause.
"I'll go back to my room," Lily said.
She turned to leave.
"Lily," Ethan called before he could stop himself.
She stopped but didn't turn around.
"I'm trying," he said. "I really am."
Her shoulders stiffened.
"So am I," she replied.
Then she walked away.
Ethan stood there long after her door closed, his chest tight with words he couldn't say.
The next day felt heavier.
They avoided being alone together. If Lily entered a room, Ethan left shortly after. If Ethan sat down, Lily found something else to do.
It was careful.
Controlled.
And exhausting.
That afternoon, Lily was folding laundry in the living room when Ethan passed by, backpack slung over his shoulder.
"I'm heading out," he said.
She nodded without looking up. "Okay."
He paused.
"I might be late."
"Alright."
He waited, hoping for something more.
It didn't come.
So he left.
Ethan didn't go to the library.
He walked aimlessly through the city, hands shoved into his pockets, thoughts loud and unforgiving.
He replayed everything—every look, every conversation, every silence.
At some point, he realized the truth he'd been avoiding.
Distance wasn't healing anything.
It was just making everything hurt quietly.
By the time he returned home, it was dark.
Lights were on in the living room.
Lily sat on the couch, knees drawn up, staring at nothing.
She looked up when he entered.
"You're late," she said.
"I know."
Another silence.
Then she stood abruptly. "We can't keep doing this."
His heart skipped. "Doing what?"
"Pretending everything is fine," she said, her voice tight. "It's not."
He nodded slowly. "I know."
She took a breath, steadying herself.
"We need boundaries," she said firmly. "Clear ones."
He swallowed. "Okay."
"No late-night talks," she continued. "No being alone together if we can help it. No—"
"No honesty?" he asked quietly.
She faltered.
"That's not what I meant."
"But it's what it feels like."
Her eyes filled, just slightly.
"This is already a mistake," she whispered. "If we keep acknowledging it, it'll only get worse."
"And if we don't?" he asked. "Does it disappear?"
She didn't answer.
Because they both knew the truth.
That night, Lily cried silently into her pillow.
Not because she loved Ethan.
That was the terrifying part.
She didn't know what she felt yet.
But she knew this—
she hadn't felt seen in years.
And now that she was, losing it felt unbearable.
Across the hall, Ethan sat on his bed, fists clenched.
He wasn't angry at Lily.
He was angry at himself.
For wanting something he shouldn't.
For caring when he was supposed to be grateful and quiet.
Sleep came late.
And when it did, it was restless.
The next morning, the house felt colder.
Distance had done what it always did.
It built walls.
But walls, Ethan realized, didn't erase feelings.
They only taught them how to wait.
And somewhere between shared silences and careful avoidance, both of them understood one painful truth—
This distance wasn't the end.
It was just the beginning of something harder to survive.
End of Chapter 4