Ada noticed the distance before she understood it.
It wasn't dramatic. There were no arguments, no harsh words, no sudden disappearances. It was subtle—measured in pauses that lingered a little too long, in messages that arrived later than usual, in the way Ethan's voice seemed more restrained when he spoke to her.
She told herself she was imagining it.
After all, nothing had been promised. Nothing defined. Whatever existed between them lived in the fragile space of almost—almost a confession, almost a step forward, almost a risk neither of them had fully taken.
Still, the quiet shift unsettled her.
They met less frequently after that evening walk. When they did see each other, the conversations remained gentle but guarded, as if both of them were carefully avoiding the edge they'd once stood so close to crossing.
Ada hated that she noticed.
She hated more that she cared.
Ethan noticed it too.
He noticed everything.
The way Ada smiled more cautiously now. The way she didn't linger as long when they parted. The way she no longer reached for him—even with her eyes.
He had created the distance himself. He knew that. And yet, every time he tried to bridge it, fear rose up inside him, sharp and unrelenting.
Because wanting Ada felt dangerous.
Because caring meant risking the one thing he had sworn never to lose again—control.
He had built his life around careful choices and emotional restraint. He had learned, the hard way, that love did not leave quietly when it was done with you. It tore. It took. It hollowed you out and left you standing in the wreckage, trying to remember who you had been before you gave too much of yourself away.
Ada didn't deserve to be caught in that storm.
So he kept his distance.
And every time he did, it cost him more than he wanted to admit.
The day everything shifted again came unexpectedly.
Ada had stayed late at work, the building nearly empty by the time she finally packed up her things. She stepped outside into the cool evening air, grateful for the quiet, when she heard her name.
"Ada?"
She turned.
A woman stood a few feet away, elegant and composed, her posture confident in a way that suggested she belonged anywhere she chose to stand. She was beautiful—not in a fragile, fleeting way, but in a polished, unmistakable one.
"Yes?" Ada replied cautiously.
The woman smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm looking for Ethan."
Ada's stomach tightened.
"He's not here," she said carefully. "Can I help you?"
The woman studied her for a moment longer than necessary. "You must be Ada."
That sent a chill through her.
"I'm Claire," the woman said, extending her hand. "Ethan and I… go back a long way."
Ada shook her hand automatically, unease curling in her chest. "I see."
Claire's smile sharpened just slightly. "I thought so."
Before Ada could ask what that meant, Claire glanced toward the street, where a familiar figure was approaching.
Ethan.
The moment he saw Claire, his expression changed—shock flickering across his features before settling into something guarded and tense.
"Claire," he said flatly. "What are you doing here?"
"I was hoping we could talk," Claire replied smoothly. "It's been a long time."
His gaze shifted briefly to Ada, guilt flashing in his eyes. "Now's not a good time."
Claire followed his gaze, then looked back at Ada. "I can see that."
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken history.
Ada took a small step back. "I should go."
Ethan turned toward her instantly. "Ada—"
"It's fine," she said quickly, forcing a polite smile. "You clearly have something to take care of."
She didn't wait for him to respond.
As she walked away, her chest ached—not with jealousy, exactly, but with the sharp awareness that there were parts of Ethan's life she knew nothing about. Parts that still had power over him.
And that scared her.
Claire watched Ada leave before turning back to Ethan.
"She's important to you," she said.
"That's none of your business."
"It used to be my business," Claire replied calmly. "Everything about you did."
Ethan clenched his jaw. "That was a long time ago."
"And yet," she said softly, "here we are."
Ada didn't cry when she got home.
She wanted to. The ache was there, pressing behind her ribs, but she refused to give it that release. Instead, she showered, changed, and sat on her bed, staring at her phone.
No message from Ethan.
She told herself not to read into it. That he owed her nothing. That she had known, from the beginning, that this was complicated.
But knowing something and feeling it were two very different things.
Her phone buzzed at last.
Ethan:
I'm sorry you had to see that.
She stared at the message for a long time before replying.
Ada:
You don't have to explain.
The reply came almost instantly.
Ethan:
I want to.
Her heart tightened.
Ada:
Not tonight.
There was a pause before his response appeared.
Ethan:
Okay. But please don't shut me out.
She closed her eyes.
Ada:
I'm just protecting myself.
She set the phone aside, hands trembling slightly. She hated how easily he could unravel her with just a few words.
That night, Ethan barely slept.
Claire's sudden reappearance had stirred memories he had spent years burying—memories of love that had burned too fast and too bright, leaving nothing but ash behind.
Claire had been his past.
Ada felt dangerously close to becoming his future.
And he wasn't sure he knew how to survive the space between the two.
The next time they saw each other was three days later.
They met in the same quiet park where so much had been said—and left unsaid. The air was tense, the silence heavier than before.
"I don't want to hurt you," Ethan said as soon as they sat down.
Ada looked at him, her expression calm but guarded. "Then don't keep me in the dark."
He exhaled slowly. "Claire was someone I loved once. Someone I lost myself in."
"And now?" she asked.
"And now," he said honestly, "she's a reminder of everything I'm afraid of repeating."
Ada absorbed that, her gaze steady. "You don't get to let your past decide whether I'm worth the risk."
His breath caught.
"I know," he said softly. "That's why I'm trying."
"Trying isn't the same as choosing."
The words hung between them, heavy with truth.
He reached for her hand, then hesitated. Slowly, deliberately, he let his hand fall back to his side.
"I don't want to borrow your heart if I'm not sure I can protect it," he said.
Ada stood.
"Then don't," she replied quietly. "Because I won't give it to someone who's already half gone."
She turned and walked away, leaving Ethan alone on the bench, the weight of her words settling deep in his chest.
For the first time in a long while, he wondered if being careful was costing him the very thing he feared losing.
And Ada, as she walked home beneath the fading light, knew one thing with painful clarity—
Some distances weren't created by space.
They were created by fear.
And unless one of them was brave enough to close it, they would both lose something they hadn't even realized they were ready to fight for.