There were moments now when Meera caught herself leaning forward—
a fraction of a second too early,
a breath taken before a sentence was finished,
a hand lifting as if to reach for something that no longer lived within reach.
She called it almost.
Almost replying.
Almost asking.
Almost turning back.
The habit lingered like muscle memory, stubborn and quiet.
She noticed it most with Rayan.
They were cataloguing prints in the gallery storage room, surrounded by cardboard boxes and the dry smell of old paper. The space was narrow, forcing closeness without intimacy. Rayan crouched beside her, sleeves rolled, carefully labeling a folder.
"This one," he said, holding up a print, "feels unfinished."
Meera leaned in instinctively, shoulder brushing his arm. The contact was accidental, harmless—yet her body reacted before her mind could interpret it. A small, reflexive stillness. A held breath.
Almost.
She shifted back, clearing her throat. "It's meant to be," she said. "Some stories don't want closure."
Rayan glanced at her, not missing the movement, but not naming it either. "Then it's honest," he said simply, and placed the print aside without argument.
The ease of that response unsettled her more than resistance would have.
Later, over coffee, she caught herself laughing too freely at something he said. The sound surprised her—light, unguarded. For a heartbeat, the world aligned into something dangerously easy.
She almost let it.
Almost let the moment stretch into something that asked for more.
But the laughter faded, replaced by a familiar caution. She wrapped her hands around the mug, grounding herself in heat.
Rayan watched her, thoughtful. "You pull back right when things soften," he observed gently. "Like you're bracing for impact."
She met his gaze. There was no accusation there, only curiosity. "Old reflex," she said. "Some habits take time to unlearn."
He nodded. "I'm not in a hurry."
The words landed quietly—and stayed.
That night, alone in her apartment, Meera sorted through old files she'd sworn she wouldn't touch again. Not to relive them, she told herself. To organize. To clean.
Order, again, masquerading as control.
She found drafts of unsent replies, notes written and deleted, messages that began with I understand and ended with nothing at all. Evidence of a mind that had spent months circling decisions without landing.
Almost saying goodbye.
Almost forgiving.
Almost wanting.
She closed the folder and shut the laptop.
Enough.
Before bed, she stood in front of the mirror, studying her reflection. Not critically. Not kindly either. Just honestly.
"You don't have to decide tonight," she said out loud, testing the sound of the permission.
The woman in the mirror didn't look relieved—but she didn't look trapped anymore.
As she turned off the lights, her phone vibrated once on the bedside table.
No message preview.
No name.
She didn't pick it up.
Some habits weren't broken by force.
They faded when you stopped feeding them.
And tonight, almost was as far as she would go.