It became a pattern before I realized it was dangerous.
The café.Evenings that stretched longer than they should.Conversations that started shallow and ended somewhere close to truth.
Noah didn't text much. He didn't call late at night.He didn't ask where I was when I wasn't with him.
And somehow, that made me feel safe.
People who plan to stay usually ask for more.People who plan to leave usually don't.
One evening, as we walked along the quiet street near the café, I noticed he always slowed his steps to match mine.
"You do that on purpose," I said.
"Do what?"
"Walk like you're afraid I'll disappear if you move too fast."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Some things disappear quickly," he said. "It's better not to rush them."
The air felt heavier after that.
We stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. Cars passed. Life continued.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"You can," he replied. "I might not answer."
"Fair enough."
I hesitated. "Why do you keep coming back?"
He didn't look at me right away.
"Because when I'm with you," he said finally, "the noise in my head quiets down."
My heart tightened.
"That doesn't sound temporary," I said softly.
He met my eyes then — and for the first time, I saw it clearly.
Fear.
Not of loving me.Of what loving me would cost.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said.
The light turned green.
We crossed the street in silence.
Later, sitting on a bench under dim streetlights, he broke the quiet.
"We should set some rules."
I frowned. "Rules?"
"Yes. Before things get complicated."
They already were.
"No expectations," he said."No promises.""And no talking about the future."
Each rule landed like a small goodbye.
"And if one of us starts feeling more?" I asked.
He looked away.
"Then we pretend we don't."
I laughed quietly, but it hurt.
"That's not how feelings work."
"I know," he said. "That's why I'm afraid."
I wanted to ask what he was afraid of.I wanted to tell him I was already breaking his rules.
Instead, I said, "Okay."
Because some people agree to impossible thingsjust to keep someone close a little longer.
As we said goodnight, he hesitated.
"This doesn't mean nothing," he said quickly.
"I know," I replied.
"It just means…" He stopped.
"It means we're borrowing time," I finished for him.
He exhaled like I'd named something he'd been carrying alone.
"Yes."
That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling and wonderedwhen I'd stopped protecting myself.
Because I already knew the truth, even if I didn't want to say it yet:
People who create rules like thisare never planning to stay long enough to break them.