I didn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the space between us—small, fragile, full of everything I hadn't let myself have.
Theo hadn't touched me.
That was the worst part.
If he had crossed the line, I could have blamed him. Anger would have been easier than this ache—the one that settled deep in my chest and refused to leave.
By morning, I was exhausted enough to believe my own lies again.
Distance is safety.
Distance is control.
I repeated it like a mantra as I went through my day.
When I stepped out of work that evening, I wasn't surprised to see him across the street.
I should have been.
Theo stood there, hands in his pockets, not approaching. Just waiting to see if I would run.
I crossed the street before I could stop myself.
"This can't keep happening," I said before he could speak. "I told you—I don't want expectations."
He nodded. "I remember."
"I don't want to hurt you," I added. "And I don't want to be responsible for what happens if you start hoping for something I can't give."
Theo watched me carefully, like he was choosing every word.
"Then I won't hope," he said.
The simplicity of it knocked the air from my lungs.
"You don't have to say that," I whispered.
"I do," he replied. "Because I don't want to be another thing that scares you."
My throat tightened.
"I'm not someone you should get used to," I said. "I leave. I shut down. I ruin things."
Theo stepped back, giving me the space I was asking for even when it hurt him.
"I don't plan to," he said quietly.
The words landed like a bruise.
Not because they were cruel—but because they were exactly what I'd asked for.
We stood there for a moment longer, two people pretending distance didn't feel like loss.
Then he turned and walked away.
I didn't follow.
I didn't call out.
I told myself I'd done the right thing.
But as his figure disappeared into the crowd, one truth settled heavily in my chest:
I wasn't protecting myself.
I was already missing him.