We spent the evening like we often did—curled up on opposite ends of the couch, a movie playing more as background than focus. We laughed, drifted into easy conversation, and let the quiet feel natural. It was one of those simple nights that felt warm just because it existed.
When the credits rolled and he got ready to leave, something shifted. At the door, I leaned in for a quick goodbye kiss.
He stepped back.
Not coldly. Not unkindly. Just… hesitant. He smiled, said we’d talk soon, and walked to his car. I stood there watching the headlights disappear, confusion slowly replacing comfort.
In my room, the silence grew heavy. I replayed everything, wondering if I had imagined the closeness we shared.
Then my phone buzzed.
Ten minutes later, he asked if I could come outside. He stood under the streetlight, hands in his pockets, looking nervous.
He told me he hadn’t stepped away because he didn’t care—he had, and that scared him. He didn’t want to rush and risk something that might become important.
We didn’t solve everything, but we spoke honestly about timing, expectations, and trust.
I went back inside feeling lighter, realizing that sometimes a pause isn’t rejection.
Sometimes it’s care.
