I didn't see him the next day.
Or the one after that.
At first, the absence felt like relief — light, fragile, easy to shatter. I moved through my routines with a careful kind of optimism, as if quiet were something I could finally trust.
But silence has weight.
And the longer it stretched, the heavier it became.
I caught myself listening for footsteps that never came. Checking reflections in windows. Pausing at street corners longer than necessary, my body remembering something my mind refused to acknowledge.
He had said he wouldn't be there.
And he hadn't been.
That was the problem.
By the third evening, I realized something unsettling.
I missed the distance.
---
I was halfway through making dinner when my phone buzzed.
One message.
From Elias.
Elias:
Tomorrow. Same café. Noon. You decide whether I sit down.
My breath caught.
No explanation.
No pressure.
No follow-up.
Just an offer — clean and precise.
I stared at the screen, my heart pounding, every instinct pulling in opposite directions.
I could say no.
I should say no.
Instead, my fingers hovered, then moved.
Me:
One hour.
The reply came almost instantly.
Elias:
I won't take more.
---
The next day felt unreal.
Time moved too slowly, then all at once. I arrived early, choosing the same table by the window — not out of habit, but intention. The chair across from me remained empty as I wrapped my hands around my coffee, the warmth grounding me.
This time, when he appeared outside the café, I noticed the difference.
He didn't linger across the street.
Didn't wait in shadows.
He walked straight toward the door.
My pulse spiked.
The bell chimed softly as he entered.
Our eyes met.
He stopped.
Right there.
He didn't approach.
He waited.
The choice sat between us, tangible and terrifying.
I nodded once.
He crossed the space slowly, deliberately, and took the seat across from me.
Up close, the air felt different — charged, quiet. He smelled faintly of something clean and subtle, his presence steady without being invasive.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?" I asked.
"For choosing," he replied.
I swallowed.
"This doesn't mean anything," I said quickly.
"It means exactly what you intend it to," he said calmly. "Nothing more."
I studied his face, searching for cracks. For hunger. For impatience.
I found none.
"Why me?" I asked.
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he watched me — not the way he had before, not like an observer cataloging weakness, but like someone listening.
"Because you pay attention to silence," he said finally. "Most people don't."
"That's not an answer."
"It is," he said softly. "Just not the one you were expecting."
I leaned back, crossing my arms. "You don't know me."
"I know what you don't show," he replied. "There's a difference."
I felt exposed — not undressed, but seen. And that was somehow worse.
"What do you want from me?" I asked.
He met my gaze steadily. "Nothing you don't offer."
My heart raced.
"That sounds like manipulation."
"It's consent," he corrected. "They look similar when you're not used to being asked."
The words landed harder than I expected.
No one had ever framed it that way before.
I exhaled slowly. "You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm sure of my limits," he said. "And yours."
I laughed quietly, shaking my head. "You don't know my limits."
"No," he agreed. "That's why I'm sitting here instead of closer."
The restraint was deliberate.
It unnerved me.
"Tell me something real," I said.
He considered that.
"I don't enjoy control," he said at last. "I enjoy awareness. They're often confused."
I frowned. "Explain."
"Control is taking," he said. "Awareness is noticing when someone is about to fall — and choosing whether to step forward."
"And you chose to step forward," I said.
"Yes," he replied. "But only after you did."
I thought back to the café, the fall that wasn't quite a fall.
"You were already watching," I said.
"Yes."
My fingers tightened around the cup. "Why?"
This time, his answer came quicker.
"Because I recognized the moment you stopped pretending you were fine."
Something in my chest cracked open.
I looked away, the city blurring beyond the glass. "That's not something people notice."
"People don't," he said. "I do."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
It was intimate.
Too intimate.
I checked my watch.
"Thirty minutes," I said.
He nodded. "I'll be gone before the hour."
"You don't have to—"
"I know," he said. "But I said I wouldn't take more."
The honesty felt heavier than a lie would have.
"Elias," I said quietly.
"Yes?"
"If I ask you something… will you answer honestly?"
"Yes."
"Did you plan this?" I asked. "Running into me. The café. Today."
He didn't hesitate.
"I noticed you weeks before we spoke," he said. "I didn't plan the fall. I planned to stay away."
My pulse skipped.
"What changed?"
"You looked relieved when you realized you weren't alone," he said. "I don't ignore relief."
I sat back, shaken.
"That's not romantic," I said.
"No," he agreed. "It's real."
When the hour ended, he stood without prompting.
"I'll walk you out," he said.
"That's not—"
"Near," he finished. "Not with."
I nodded.
Outside, he stopped at the door.
"Same time next week?" he asked.
I hesitated.
"Yes," I said.
He smiled then — just barely.
"Good," he said. "Then I'll keep my distance until then."
He turned and left without looking back.
I watched him disappear into the crowd, my thoughts tangled, my emotions unsettled.
Because something had shifted.
Not because he crossed a line.
But because I had.
And I wasn't sure I wanted to step back.