The distance was supposed to help.
That's what Lily told herself as she stood in the kitchen the next morning, staring at the kettle like it held answers. Boundaries. Rules. Space. She had named them all last night, laid them out neatly like lines drawn on a map.
But maps only work when you know where you're going.
The kettle whistled. She poured the water, hands steady, heart anything but.
Ethan didn't come down for breakfast.
She noticed that too quickly.
Good, she told herself. This is how it should be.
And yet, the quiet felt sharper than before.
Ethan stayed in his room longer than usual.
He sat on the edge of his bed, shoes on, backpack untouched. His phone buzzed—messages from classmates, reminders about deadlines—but he ignored them all.
Cracks in control.
That's what last night had been.
He had agreed to Lily's rules because saying no would have made things worse. Or maybe because he didn't trust himself if the conversation went on any longer.
But agreeing didn't make the ache disappear.
It only gave it a name.
Boundaries.
He finally stood and left the room.
Lily heard his footsteps and stiffened without turning around.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning," she replied.
Short. Careful.
He grabbed a mug, poured coffee, and leaned against the counter. The familiar rhythm of shared space felt foreign now, like two people pretending not to know a song they'd once hummed together.
"I'll be out most of the day," he said.
"Oh," she replied, eyes fixed on the sink. "Okay."
Another pause.
"You don't have to rush because of me," she added quietly.
He smiled, though she didn't see it. "I know."
But they both knew that wasn't true.
The day dragged.
Lily tried to distract herself—errands, phone calls, even a half-hearted attempt at reading. Nothing worked. Her mind kept wandering back to moments she wished she could erase.
The storm.
The hallway.
The way Ethan had said, I'm trying.
She sighed and pressed her fingers to her temples.
Mark called in the afternoon.
"Everything okay at home?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied automatically. "All good."
And it was, she told herself.
Nothing had happened.
That was the problem.
Ethan spent most of the day at the library, but studying felt pointless. Words blurred. Numbers meant nothing. Every few minutes, he found himself checking the time.
When evening arrived, he didn't want to go home.
Still, he did.
The house greeted him with soft light and familiar walls. Lily sat on the couch, a blanket draped over her legs, a movie paused on the screen.
She looked up.
"You're back."
"Yeah."
"You hungry?"
"A bit."
"I made pasta," she said, then hesitated. "If you want."
He nodded. "Sure. Thanks."
They ate quietly at opposite ends of the table. The food tasted fine, but Ethan barely noticed. He kept his eyes on his plate, afraid that one wrong glance might undo all the effort they'd made to keep things under control.
Halfway through the meal, Lily spoke.
"You don't have to avoid me," she said softly.
He looked up, surprised.
"I'm not," he replied. "I'm just… being careful."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Me too."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
It was heavy.
Later that night, Ethan heard Lily crying.
It was faint—muffled, like she was trying not to be heard—but unmistakable.
He froze in the hallway, heart pounding.
Don't, his mind screamed. This is exactly what you're trying to avoid.
But his feet didn't listen.
He knocked softly on her door.
"Lily?"
The crying stopped abruptly.
"Yes?" Her voice was tight.
"Are you okay?"
A long pause.
"No," she admitted.
He closed his eyes.
"Can I come in?" he asked, hating himself for asking.
Another pause.
Then—"Okay."
He entered slowly.
Lily sat on the edge of the bed, eyes red, hands clenched in the blanket. She looked smaller somehow, like the walls were closing in on her.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to—"
"You don't have to apologize," Ethan said, stopping a safe distance away.
They stood there, both unsure.
"I thought distance would make this easier," she said. "But it just makes everything louder."
He nodded. "Same."
She laughed softly, bitter. "Of course it does."
He hesitated, then spoke carefully. "We don't have to solve everything tonight."
She looked up at him.
"Then what do we do?"
"We breathe," he said. "We get through tonight. That's all."
Her shoulders relaxed slightly.
"Sit," she said.
He did.
They sat on opposite ends of the bed, not touching, but closer than they'd been all day.
"I feel like I'm losing control," Lily confessed. "And that scares me."
"I don't think control is the same as strength," Ethan replied.
She studied him. "You always say things like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you've already lived a lot."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe I just pay attention."
Her eyes softened.
"Being seen," she murmured. "That's what you do."
The words settled between them.
Time passed unnoticed.
They talked—about small things, safe things. Movies. Music. College. Her childhood. His hometown.
Nothing dangerous.
Everything intimate.
At some point, Lily leaned back against the headboard, exhaustion catching up with her. Ethan shifted slightly to give her space.
Their shoulders brushed.
Neither moved away.
The contact was innocent.
It didn't feel like it.
She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, grounding herself.
"This can't happen," she whispered—not as a command, but as a plea.
"I know," he said.
Yet neither of them stood.
Control cracked again.
When Ethan finally left her room, it was past midnight.
They hadn't crossed any lines.
They'd just stood too close to them.
In his room, Ethan lay awake, heart racing.
He realized something then—something he hadn't wanted to admit.
Distance wasn't enough.
Rules weren't enough.
Because the problem wasn't proximity.
It was connection.
The next few days followed the same pattern.
Careful mornings. Quiet evenings. Long looks that ended too soon.
The cracks didn't close.
They widened.
One afternoon, Lily received a call that left her shaken. She didn't explain it fully—just that it was about family, about expectations, about choices she'd made years ago.
Ethan listened.
"You don't owe anyone your unhappiness," he said gently.
She smiled sadly. "I wish it were that simple."
"Maybe it is," he replied. "Just not easy."
She exhaled slowly. "You make it harder to lie to myself."
He didn't know whether to apologize for that.
That night, as Lily stood alone in the living room, she realized something frightening.
She wasn't afraid of crossing the line anymore.
She was afraid of what would happen if she didn't.
And upstairs, Ethan stared at the ceiling, the same truth sinking in.
Control wasn't breaking because they were weak.
It was breaking because something real had taken root.
And real things didn't disappear just because you told them to.
They waited.
They grew.
And soon—
They demanded to be faced.
End of Chapter 5