Chapter 9 — The Pull Back
Eli doesn't come to the door this time.
He waits somewhere I can't see — long enough for the silence to stretch, long enough for me to start to think maybe he's finally let go.
Then my phone lights up.
> **Eli:** Missed you today.
I don't answer.
Ten minutes later:
> **Eli:** I came by. You weren't home. Where were you?
My chest tightens. I stare at the message until the words blur, then turn the phone facedown.
Another buzz.
> **Eli:** Did I do something wrong?
He knows exactly what he's doing — pulling the thread of guilt, weaving it tighter until it knots in my stomach.
I type and erase a dozen replies before sending just two words:
> *Please stop.*
No answer.
For a few minutes, it feels like air finally reaches the room again.
Then the knock comes.
When I open the door, Eli's standing there with a plastic bag in his hand and that same disarming smile. "You forgot lunch," he says, holding up the bag. "I thought you might be hungry."
His tone is light, gentle. Like he's doing something kind.
Like nothing's wrong.
"I told you not to come here."
"I know," he says, stepping inside anyway. "But I can't just watch you push me away. Not when I've always been the one who's here."
I step back. "Eli—"
He sets the bag on the counter, turning toward me. "You think I don't notice? You're scared. I can fix that if you just let me."
The calm in his voice is what scares me most. There's no shouting, no anger — just certainty. He really believes this is love.
"I don't need you to fix me," I say quietly.
He studies me for a long time, like he's trying to decide whether I mean it.
Then he smiles again — soft, practiced. "Of course you do. You just don't see it yet."
When he finally leaves, the apartment feels smaller, the air thinner.
On the counter, the bag still sits there. Inside is my favorite sandwich — the one I mentioned liking *weeks ago*.
And under it, a note written in his tidy, careful handwriting:
> *You'll understand soon.*
---