I am proud to say that I lasted exactly six hours before breaking down.
Six full hours of avoiding Elena like she was a pop quiz on my dignity. Six hours of tiptoeing through hallways like a cartoon thief, texting from across the house, and nearly falling out of a window just to avoid passing her in the upstairs hallway.
It started simple. I heard her wake up and immediately hid in the laundry room with a bowl of dry cereal and Spotify on low volume. Nothing says emotional maturity like hiding behind a stack of mismatched towels because you accidentally sort of flirted with your dad's wife while trapped in a broom closet.
Then came Phase Two: the Fake Errand.
"I'm running to the store!" I shouted from the doorway, hoping she wouldn't ask what I was buying.
"For what?" she called from the kitchen.
"…Nuts!"
A pause.
"You're allergic to nuts."
"Almond milk. I meant almond milk!"
"You hate almond milk."
"See you in thirty!"
And just like that, I was out the door.
I didn't even drive to a store. I just walked around the block, dramatically sighing like a Victorian widow. I considered texting my best friend Connor to ask what to do, but he'd just say something like, "If she's hot and you're both consenting adults, who cares?" And then I'd have to throw my phone into traffic.
By the time I got back, I was determined to stick to my Avoidance Plan™. Zero eye contact. Minimal conversation. No touching, no reminiscing, and definitely no emotionally-charged moments in confined spaces.
Spoiler: that lasted all of fifteen minutes.
Because when I walked in, there was Elena, standing on a chair, reaching for a dusty box on the top shelf of the pantry. In shorts. And my hoodie.
"You're going to fall," I said before I could stop myself.
She looked down at me. "Well, look who came back from his dramatic milk quest."
I ignored that. "Seriously, get down before you crack your head open."
"You offering to catch me?"
"No."
She grinned and—of course—lost her balance.
She didn't fall all the way. Just kind of tilted dangerously until I had no choice but to rush over and steady the chair. My hands landed on her legs.
Her bare legs.
We both froze.
"Steady," I muttered, eyes fixed anywhere but her thighs.
"You're touching me," she said, not helping.
"I'm saving you."
"From a granola box?"
"From certain death."
Her smirk was unbearable.
She climbed down slowly, deliberately — the kind of slow that made it impossible not to notice the way the hoodie slipped off one shoulder and the smell of her shampoo and—
No. No no no no no.
I stepped back like I'd been electrocuted.
"Stop climbing furniture," I snapped. "You're not a cat."
"Maybe I like heights."
"Maybe you like chaos."
"Maybe," she said, and brushed past me on her way to the fridge, "you're afraid of feelings."
I stood there, stunned.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"You think I'm the problem here?"
"You're the one hiding in the laundry room like a raccoon."
"I was folding towels!"
"You folded the same towel for twenty minutes."
"I WAS REFLECTING."
She leaned against the counter with her arms crossed, smile smug. "Sure you were. You're just mad that we had a moment."
"We didn't have a moment!"
"Closet. Shirtless. Emotional oversharing. There were knee grazes, Aaron."
"You're out of your mind."
She took a bite of a leftover rice krispie treat. "You liked it."
"I didn't."
"You're still wearing your flustered face."
"I don't have a flustered face."
She raised one eyebrow. "You look like you saw me naked in a dream and now feel Catholic guilt."
"I—WHAT—how do you know what that even looks like?!"
She laughed. "I've dated emotionally repressed men before, honey. I can smell the panic."
"Okay. No. That's it. New rule. Boundaries. You don't get to psychoanalyze me just because we got locked in a closet once."
"Twice."
"What?"
"You also got locked in my eyes yesterday. Remember that?"
I groaned and covered my face. "You are infuriating."
"And you're kind of adorable when you're trying not to combust."
I backed out of the kitchen with all the grace of a spooked goat.
"I'm going to my room."
"Why?"
"To avoid committing a felony."
Her laugh followed me all the way down the hall.
Later that day
I thought the drama was over.
I thought, If I just hide long enough, she'll forget I exist.
But fate? Fate laughs in my face.
Because around 5 PM, Elena knocked on my door holding a board game and two sodas.
"No."
"Yes."
"I'm not doing game night with you."
"It's raining. The WiFi's out. You have no friends."
"Wow."
"Come on," she said, her voice softening. "We'll keep it PG. No flirting. No feelings. Just innocent competitive rage."
"I don't rage."
"You broke a controller during Mario Kart last week."
"He blue-shelled me on the finish line!"
"So… rage."
I sighed. "What game?"
She held up Scrabble.
I squinted. "That's not a rage game."
"You've clearly never played with me."
Thirty minutes later, we were sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, a pile of junk food between us, the board already half-covered in suspiciously suggestive words.
"'Moist' is not a bonus word," I said flatly.
"House rules."
"House rules are for criminals."
"Says the guy who spelled 'nipple' on a triple word score."
"I was using the 'E' you gave me!"
She grinned. "We're definitely going to hell."
"I already live here."
We played for another hour. I tried not to notice how close she sat. How her shoulder brushed mine when she reached for snacks. How her laugh made my stomach do that annoying flip-flop thing it used to do with girls I actually liked.
Which — reminder — I was not supposed to be doing.
But then something weird happened.
We stopped playing.
And we just… talked.
Not flirted. Not teased.
Talked.
About our favorite movies. Her childhood dog. My failed high school band. Her fear of clowns. My fear of tax season.
She told me about her mom. I told her about mine.
The world felt smaller. Softer.
Safer.
Then the power came back on.
And just like that, the spell broke.
"Oh," she said, blinking at the lights.
"Guess the storm's over."
"Yeah."
We cleaned up in silence.
She looked at me one last time before going upstairs.
"I meant what I said," she said quietly.
"About what?"
"You're not the problem."
And then she was gone.
That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
I didn't know what to feel.
But I knew this:
The more I tried to avoid her, the more I missed her.
And that terrified me more than anything else.
Because it meant that somewhere between cereal in the laundry room and Scrabble on the floor…
I was starting to fall.
And there was no one to blame but myself.