Anna began to notice the changes before she could explain them. George still visited, but not with the same ease. His laughter felt forced at times, his phone always within reach, lighting up more often than before. When it did, he would glance at the screen and turn it face down without a word.
She tried not to read into it. Tried to remind herself that they weren't anything official. Still, the silence between them grew heavier.
One afternoon, George arrived unannounced. He didn't bring snacks. He didn't smile the way he usually did. He sat on the edge of her bed, rubbing his palms together like he was preparing for something difficult.
"Anna," he said, avoiding her eyes, "I've been thinking."
Her heart tightened. "About what?"
"About us."
The word hung in the air. Us.
"I like you," George continued. "I really do. But I don't want things to get complicated."
Anna crossed her arms. "They already are."
George sighed. "I just want us to take things slowly. No pressure. Just… see how it goes."
She studied him carefully. "And Rose?" she asked quietly.
He stiffened. "What about her?"
"You're still around her all the time."
"She's family," he said quickly. Too quickly.
Anna didn't respond. She simply nodded, though something inside her shifted. She realized she was always adjusting—waiting, understanding, accepting—while George remained comfortably undecided.
Days passed. George still came by, but Anna kept her distance. When he leaned in for a hug, she stepped back. When he reached for her hand, she pretended not to notice. The warmth between them cooled, replaced by awkward silences.
One evening, George confronted her.
"You've been avoiding me," he said.
Anna met his gaze. "I'm protecting myself."
He scoffed lightly. "From what?"
"From being someone's option," she replied.
The words hit harder than she expected. George opened his mouth, then closed it again. For the first time, he had nothing to say.
That night, Anna lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She thought about how easily affection could turn into confusion, how closeness without clarity could slowly drain the heart.
Across the corridor, George sat on his bed, replaying her words in his head.
Someone's option.
Between Room 119 and Room 121, something fragile was beginning to crack—and neither of them knew which side would break first.