Watching him, I realized something:
He wasn't unreachable because he was hard.
He was hard because he was unreachable.
His expression rarely changed.
His gaze carried a distance that didn't allow anyone too close.
As if there was an invisible line between him and the rest of the world.
And no one crossed it without consequences.
Even standing beside him…
sometimes he felt far away.
His shoulders were broad, his posture calm.
But that calm didn't come from peace—it came from control.
Like nothing in his life could ever catch him unprepared.
Until he looked at me.
When his eyes lingered on mine,
a small crack formed in that hardness.
Brief. Almost unnoticeable.
But I saw it.
In that moment, I knew he wasn't just seeing me.
He was seeing himself.
My quiet presence.
My unassuming stillness.
And the fact that he couldn't ignore me.
I didn't know if it was my beauty that unsettled him.
But there was something beyond beauty in his gaze.
Discomfort.
Threat.
As if I were the one thing capable of disrupting the world he had built.
When I stepped closer, my heart raced.
But I didn't pull away.
Because I felt it—
he was burning too.
He just hid it better.
We didn't touch.
But even the space between us felt warm.
We were unreachable.
Both of us.
And some things…
burn more fiercely because they are.