It is strange how quickly silence can return once you invite it back.
I thought pulling away would feel safe again. Familiar. Controlled. Instead, it feels heavier than before, like I reopened a door that no longer fits its frame.
The first evening I avoid him, I tell myself it is necessary.
The second evening, it feels deliberate.
By the third, it feels like I am testing something.
I step outside to water the plants, knowing he usually sits on the steps around this time. My movements are slower than usual. I tell myself I am not waiting. I tell myself I do not care.
He is there.
Of course he is.
He glances up when he hears the sound of water hitting the soil. Our eyes meet for a second too long to be accidental.
"Hi," he says.
Just that. No tension in his voice.
"Hi."
I focus on the plants instead of him. The leaves look healthier than they did last week. I concentrate on that detail as if it matters more than the air between us.
There is a pause.
Then he speaks again.
"Did I do something?"
The question is quiet. Careful. Not accusing.
I freeze for half a second before turning off the tap.
"What?"
"You have been avoiding me."
He says it plainly, like stating the weather. There is no hurt in his tone, but there is awareness.
"I have not," I reply automatically.
Even as I say it, I know it sounds thin.
He does not argue. He does not list examples. He simply watches me, giving me space to correct myself if I want to.
I look down at the wet soil.
"It is just school," I say. "I have been busy."
"That makes sense," he answers.
Too easily.
The ease unsettles me more than confrontation would have.
"I did not mean to make you uncomfortable," he adds after a moment. "If I did."
Something inside me shifts at that.
He thinks this is about him.
He thinks he crossed a line.
The realization presses against my chest in a way I do not like.
"You did not," I say quickly. This time it is firm. "You did not do anything."
He studies my face, as if he didn't believe my words.
"Okay," he says.
Again, no pushing. No forcing.
That patience feels heavier than anger would have.
The silence stretches. Not the comfortable one from before. This one feels aware. It is filled with things unsaid.
I grip the watering can tighter than necessary.
The truth sits right there. I am afraid of liking him. Afraid of needing someone. Afraid of the way his presence makes the world feel less distant.
But admitting that would mean stepping closer.
And I have just taken a step back.
"I just…" I begin, then stop.
He waits.
"I am not used to people staying," I finish quietly.
It is not a full explanation. But it is honest.
Something in his expression softens. Not pity. Not relief. Just understanding.
"I am not going anywhere," he says simply.
There is no grand promise in it. Just fact.
The words settle somewhere deeper than I expect.
For a moment, I imagine what it would feel like to believe him completely.
Then the bubble tightens again, instinctive and protective.
"I should go inside," I say.
He nods. "Yeah."
No attempt to stop me.
As I walk back toward the house, I feel his presence behind me. Not watching in a possessive way. Just there.
Inside my room, I sit on the edge of my bed and let the quiet return fully.
He asked if he did something wrong.
That is what stays with me.
I built my distance to protect myself.
But it reflects back onto him.
And for the first time, I wonder if safety that hurts someone else is really safety at all.
The bubble does not feel secure tonight.
It feels narrow.
And I am the one who made it that way.