I spent the entire night reminding myself why distance was necessary.
Why people were dangerous. Why closeness was never just closeness—it was expectation, disappointment, loss.
By morning, my reasons felt solid again. Heavy. Safe.
Theo didn't appear for two days after that.
I told myself I was relieved.
On the third evening, I saw him outside my apartment building.
My first instinct was panic.
He wasn't waiting in a way that felt intrusive. He leaned against the brick wall, phone in hand, like he might have been there for five minutes or twenty—like he would have left if I hadn't shown up.
"Mira," he said when he saw me. No surprise. Just quiet recognition.
"How did you—" I stopped myself. "This isn't a good idea."
"I know," he replied calmly. "That's why I didn't come up."
I studied him, searching for irritation, impatience—anything that would justify pushing him away.
I found none.
"I don't let people get close," I said. The words came out sharper than I intended. "Not anymore."
He nodded slowly. "Okay."
"That means no expectations. No sudden appearances. No…" I gestured vaguely between us. "Whatever this is."
Theo didn't interrupt. He didn't argue.
When I finished, my chest felt tight, like I'd just confessed something important.
"I hear you," he said. "And I'll respect that."
The ease with which he accepted my boundaries unsettled me more than if he'd pushed back.
"That's it?" I asked.
"That's it," he confirmed. "You don't owe me anything."
Silence settled between us, thick and complicated.
"I don't want to hurt you," I added quietly.
His expression softened. "Neither do I."
For a moment, I thought he might say something more. Something dangerous.
Instead, he stepped back. "I'll see you around."
He turned to leave.
The ache that followed surprised me.
I watched him walk away, the space he left behind louder than his presence had ever been.
As I unlocked my door, one thought echoed painfully in my mind.
Some lines weren't meant to protect you.
They were meant to keep you lonely.