Chapter 8 — The Distance He Can Feel
Eli notices before anyone else does.
Of course he does.
He's always been able to read me — every hesitation, every pause in my voice, every tiny lie I tell to keep things peaceful. He doesn't need proof that something's changed. He *feels* it.
It starts with small things. I answer slower. I take the long way home. I stop sharing every detail of my day.
He doesn't confront me right away — that's not how Eli works. He pretends everything's normal, the way someone might smile while tightening their grip on a rope.
Then one night, he calls. His voice is soft, too soft.
"You've been quiet lately."
"Just busy," I say.
"Busy," he repeats, like he's tasting the word, testing it for truth. "With who?"
"No one."
A pause. I can almost hear him smiling through the line. "You've never been good at lying to me."
My throat goes dry. "Eli—"
"It's fine," he cuts in, still calm. "I get it. You need space. People say that when they're trying to disappear without actually saying goodbye."
"I'm not disappearing."
He hums softly, a sound that doesn't quite reach laughter. "You wouldn't, not to me. You're not like that."
When the call ends, I feel cold. Not because of what he said — but because of what he didn't.
There was no anger in his tone, no accusation. Just certainty.
Like he already knows what I'm thinking.
Like he's already planning what to do about it.
The next day, I notice little things around my apartment.
A photo frame moved slightly. A window I swore I'd locked, now cracked open.
Nothing's missing — but everything feels touched.
That night, another message:
> **Eli:** You don't have to hide from me. I always find you.
And for the first time, I realize he's right — not as a comfort, but as a threat.
---