The following morning unfolded like a performance. Polite smiles. Small talk. An awkward choreography of avoidance.
Elena kept herself busy—first cleaning the kitchen, then sorting laundry, then heading out for a walk without saying where she was going. When she returned, she didn't come into Simon's room. Didn't knock. Didn't even pass by the door.
Simon stayed mostly silent, headphones on, watching videos he wasn't really paying attention to. His mind was stuck in a loop, playing last night's moment on repeat.
Her kneeling in front of him. Her hand on his knee. Her whisper: "It doesn't feel wrong."
And then the door. Closing between them.
He wasn't sure what that meant. A barrier? A pause? A warning?
By late afternoon, he couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed his hoodie, slipped on his sneakers, and went out.
He walked the streets for nearly an hour. Down past the corner deli, past the laundromat that always smelled like warm cotton and bleach, past the high school's empty track field where he'd once watched Elena cheer during Eddie's games.
Everything felt too close. The air. The city. His own thoughts.
He ended up at the small basketball court near the river. No one was playing. Just a couple of kids riding scooters and an old man on a bench reading the Times. He sat down under a tree and watched the water for a while.
His phone buzzed.
Elena: Dinner's almost ready. You coming back?
He stared at the screen.
There was no emoji. No heart. Just plain words.
Like nothing had happened.
He typed a reply, then erased it.
Eventually, he just stood and started walking home.
By the time he returned, the apartment smelled like roasted garlic and marinara. Elena was in the kitchen, scooping pasta onto plates like everything was fine.
"Hey," she said when he walked in. "I made your favorite."
"Thanks," he replied.
They sat at the table.
She filled the silence with light chatter—updates about college brochures, something she overheard at the pharmacy, a story about someone from school who dyed their hair neon blue and got suspended.
Simon nodded and hummed responses, chewing quietly.
Halfway through the meal, she paused and looked at him.
"You mad at me?" she asked softly.
He met her eyes. "No."
"You're quiet."
"You're pretending nothing happened."
Elena put her fork down.
"I'm not pretending," she said. "I'm trying to figure out how to deal with it."
Simon leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.
"So am I."
She nodded slowly, her expression unreadable.
"I'm scared," she admitted. "Not of you. Of what this could mean."
Simon's voice was low. "It doesn't have to mean anything yet."
"But it already does," she whispered.
He didn't respond.
After dinner, they cleared the table in silence. The air between them was thick again, full of unsaid things.
As Simon turned to leave the kitchen, Elena grabbed his wrist gently.
"I'm not trying to hurt you," she said.
"I know."
"And I don't want you to hate me."
"I could never."
Her eyes softened. "Promise?"
He looked at her—really looked—and said, "I've loved you for a long time, Elena. That's not going to change."
Her grip on his wrist tightened just slightly. Her eyes glistened with something that might have been tears. Then she let him go.
That night, he couldn't sleep again.
The apartment was quiet except for the buzz of a streetlamp outside. He lay in bed, heart restless, thoughts tangled.
He kept expecting another knock at the door.
But it never came.
Around midnight, he slipped out of bed and padded into the hallway barefoot. Her door was closed, light leaking faintly from underneath.
He stood there for a long time, unsure what he was waiting for.
Then the door creaked open.
Elena stood in the doorway, eyes wide, surprised but not startled. She wore a long sleep shirt, her hair down, skin glowing faintly in the soft light.
They didn't speak.
She stepped back slowly.
And without asking, Simon entered.
The room was warm, filled with soft shadows. The candle on her dresser was lit again, casting amber flickers across the walls.
Elena sat on the edge of the bed. Simon stood a few feet away, unsure where the boundary lay now.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"Me neither."
She glanced down at her hands in her lap, then patted the bed beside her.
He sat.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
"I hate that I'm drawn to you like this," she said quietly.
Simon turned to her. "Then why let me in?"
"Because... I don't want to be alone in this anymore."
Her voice cracked on the last word, and Simon's heart broke.
He reached out carefully, fingers brushing hers.
She didn't pull away.
They sat like that—hands touching, silence stretching between them like a wire pulled taut.
Then slowly, she leaned her head against his shoulder.
And for a long, long time, they just breathed.
No kisses. No sudden moves. No declarations.
Just closeness.
Just warmth.
Just a shared, aching truth they couldn't name out loud.