The encounter with Lillian left a bitter aftertaste that lingered for days. Amelia threw herself into her work for the Westbridge Fellowship, the words becoming a shield against the image of Lillian's arm linked possessively through Adrian's. He texted, apologizing again, explaining the dinner had been as tedious as expected, but the distance between their worlds felt wider than ever.
A few nights later, holed up in his sterile apartment for another study session, the tension was palpable. They were supposed to be dissecting economic theory, but the textbooks lay forgotten on the coffee table. The city lights glittered beyond the windows, a silent audience to the charged silence between them.
"You're quiet tonight," Adrian observed, his voice soft. He was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the sofa where she was perched.
"Just thinking about the fellowship," she lied, tracing the pattern on a throw pillow.
"Liar," he said, just as softly. He turned his head to look up at her. "You're thinking about her. About the other night."
Amelia sighed, giving up the pretense. "It's just… a reminder. Of where you belong."
"I don't belong with her," he said, his voice gaining intensity. He shifted, turning his whole body to face her. "That world, those dinners… it's a script. One I'm forced to read from. This…" He gestured between the two of them. "This is the only place where I get to improvise. Where I feel like I'm actually me."
His words were a balm and a torment. She believed him, but belief didn't erase the reality of Lillian's perfectly timed appearances or his father's looming presence.
"It's hard to improvise when the director is always waiting in the wings," she whispered.
He moved then, rising up on his knees so his face was level with hers. The air left the room. He was so close she could see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
"Then let's forget about the director for a minute," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. "Just for a minute."
The world narrowed to the space between them. The hum of the refrigerator faded, the city lights blurred. All she could hear was the frantic beating of her own heart. This was it. The moment the charged glances, the whispered confessions, the tender touches had been building towards. His hand came up, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, his thumb lingering on her skin. It was a question.
Amelia's breath hitched. Every cell in her body was leaning toward him, screaming yes. This was the boy from the coffee shop, the library, the balcony. This was real.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
The sharp, insistent buzz of a phone shattered the silence like glass.
They jerked apart. The spell was broken. Adrian swore under his breath, his expression a mixture of fury and resignation. He pulled his phone from his pocket, his face hardening as he looked at the screen.
"It's him, isn't it?" Amelia asked, her voice hollow.
He didn't answer. He just stared at the vibrating phone in his hand as if it were a venomous snake. The ringtone was a relentless drill, shattering the intimate bubble they had created.
He didn't answer it. But he didn't reject the call either. He just let it ring, the sound a brutal reminder that their minute was up. The director was calling his actor back to the stage.
The moment was gone. The almost-kiss hung in the air between them, a ghost of what could have been. The warmth that had been building between them was replaced by the familiar, chilling weight of his reality.
"I should… I should probably go," Amelia said, her voice unsteady as she stood up, gathering her things with trembling hands.
Adrian looked up at her, his eyes full of a desperate, helpless apology. "Amelia, I…"
"It's okay," she said, cutting him off. She couldn't bear to hear another apology. "I get it."
She left him there, on his knees in his beautiful, empty apartment, the unanswered phone finally falling silent. She walked out into the night, the cold air a shock to her system. The almost-kiss wasn't a beginning. It felt like an ending a painful confirmation that no matter how real their connection felt, the lie he lived would always get there first.