Sleep never came easily that night.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle into silence. Every sound felt amplified — a distant door, the hum of electricity, the quiet reminder that I wasn't alone.
Ethan was still here.
The thought pressed into me with an ache that refused to dull. He had pulled away all evening, creating space with such precision that it felt deliberate. Controlled.
Punishing.
I turned onto my side, then back again, restless. My phone lit up briefly with another message from Ryan, but I didn't open it. I couldn't bring myself to read words that asked me to stay when everything inside me was unraveling.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Slow.Measured.
I froze.
The steps stopped just outside my door.
My breath caught, shallow and uneven.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then came a soft knock — once, restrained, like he might change his mind if he waited too long.
"Clara," Ethan said quietly.
My name slid into the room like a spark.
I sat up, my heart pounding. "Yes?"
"I—" He paused. "Can we talk?"
I should have said no.
I didn't.
I opened the door just enough to see him standing there, hair slightly undone, sleeves rolled, his posture tense in a way I hadn't seen before. This wasn't the composed man from earlier.
This was someone holding himself together by force.
"I won't come in," Ethan said immediately, as if reading the thought on my face.
The restraint in that sentence sent a wave through me.
"Okay," I replied, stepping back anyway.
He hesitated, then crossed the threshold — slowly, deliberately — stopping a careful distance away from me.
The room felt smaller instantly.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," he said.
"I know."
"You shouldn't have to feel… unsettled because of me."
The word felt chosen carefully.
"You didn't give me much choice," I replied, my voice softer than I intended.
His jaw tightened. "That wasn't my intention."
"But it happened," I said. "Whether you wanted it to or not."
Silence stretched between us, heavy and charged. I could feel the heat of him, the tension rolling off his body like something barely contained.
"I saw you with Ryan today," Ethan said finally.
My pulse spiked. "You weren't meant to."
"I know," he replied. "But I did."
"And?"
"And it made things very clear."
Clear. The word echoed sharply.
"Clear how?" I asked.
"That you belong to someone else," he said. "And that I need to stop pretending I can stand this distance without consequence."
Something in his voice fractured at the end.
I stepped closer without thinking.
One step.
Then another.
We were close now — too close. Close enough that I could see the strain in his eyes, the restraint trembling beneath his control.
"You don't look unaffected," I said quietly.
"Because I'm not," Ethan replied. "But I am responsible."
The word made something snap inside me.
"So am I," I said. "And pretending this isn't happening isn't responsibility. It's avoidance."
His breath changed — deeper, slower, as if he were grounding himself.
"Clara," he warned.
"Tell me to stop," I said. "And I will."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Ethan didn't move.Didn't speak.
His gaze dropped briefly — to my mouth, my throat — then lifted again, dark and controlled.
That single glance felt more intimate than touch.
"You shouldn't ask me that," he said hoarsely.
"Why?" I whispered.
"Because if you do," he replied, "I won't trust myself to walk away."
My heart hammered painfully against my ribs.
For one suspended moment, neither of us moved.
Then, slowly — deliberately — Ethan stepped back.
The space between us rushed in like cold air.
"This," he said quietly, "is exactly why I'm leaving."
I swallowed, my throat tight. "So you don't want this?"
"I want it too much," he said. "And that's the problem."
The words landed harder than any rejection.
He turned away, stopping at the door.
"Goodbye, Clara," Ethan said. "For now."
Then he left.
The door closed softly behind him.
I stood there, shaking, my body still leaning toward a presence that was no longer there. My skin burned where distance had replaced warmth.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, pressing my hands into the mattress to steady myself.
Nothing had happened.
No line had been crossed.
And yet, everything felt altered.
That night, I cried quietly into my pillow — not because Ethan left, but because I understood what it had cost him to go.
And what it would cost me to let him.
Resisting him had started to hurt.
But losing him felt unbearable.