Her gaze cuts through the flimsy justification I offered. It’s clear this isn’t about how she came apart in my hands. It’s about what drove me to do it. A tightness gathers in my chest—annoyance at being questioned, maybe, or the stirrings of guilt I don’t want to acknowledge just yet.
“I need some time to myself today.”
My jaw clenches. “I barely slept last night without you.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. I’ve been counting down the hours. “You promised me tonight.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes. But the afternoon separates now and then, and I want to spend it away from you.” There’s no anger in her voice. No heat. Just that quiet, steady resolve. I want to shake her out of it.
I draw in a slow breath, trying to hold myself together, but each second she stands firm, each second she chooses distance over me, pulls at the seams of my composure.
“But why?” The question escapes before I can stop it. It sounds desperate. Weak.
“I just need space, Nathaniel.”
Panic stirs, sharp and insistent. I can feel it twisting deeper in my stomach. Some part of me—the part that’s been fraying since last night—insists she’s slipping through my fingers. The morerational part tries to steady me.She loves you. She’s yours. She’s not saying she wants to leave you.
But the reassurance doesn’t hold. Not when she’s looking at me like that—like she could easily walk away.And god, what if she does?I shove down the thought, dragging irritation to the surface like a shield.
“You’ve already spent one night away from me,” I grit out. “That should be enough.”
Her silence says everything.
My chest constricts. The need to regain control claws at me. It is what steadies me, what brought her into my world, what keeps everything from splintering apart. Without it, what am I left with?
“What are you going to do?” My voice drops, low and rough. I step closer, enough to feel the warmth radiating from her. I half-expect her to pull away. Thankfully, she doesn’t.
“Olivia.” Her name is a plea, though I try to mask it. And the other question that claws at the back of my throat, unspoken—Why can’t I be with you?
She finally answers, and the ground shifts beneath me.
“I have a job interview.”
The words land like a slap.
An interview. My thoughts stumble, grasping for understanding.Where? With whom? Why didn’t you tell me?My mouth goes dry.
“An interview,” I echo, my voice flat.
She gives a small nod.
“Where?”
She doesn’t answer.
“With whom?”
“I have an interview, and that’s all you need to know for now.” Her voice remains even, though I can see the tension in the set of her shoulders.
I clench my jaw.For now.It’s unbearable. She’s shutting me out, keeping secrets.From me.
By the end of last semester, she had already started to let me in. But over winter break, it deepened. She kept me in the loop without being asked. Told me when firms reached out. Walked me through roles she was considering.
And after she told me she loved me, she followed it with action. She began updating her location preferences to New York. She didn’t make a big deal out of it, but I let myself believe that it meant something—that we’d reached a place of shared decisions, or at least shared intentions.
And now, this intentional omission feels like a step backward.
“You weren’t going to tell me?” My voice is soft, but the threat lurks beneath it.
“I wanted to do it on my own.”
