Type again.
Me:Yeah. Busy. Practice ran long.
Three minutes pass.
She replies.
Sloane:Want to grab dinner tomorrow?
My thumb hovers.
Nothing about her message is wrong.
Nothing about her has changed.
Except the way the world might see her.
And the way that could bleed into me.
Me:Let me see how tomorrow looks.
The words feel distant even as I send them.
She responds with a simple heart.
It shouldn’t hurt.
It does.
***
Over the next few days, I don’t stop talking to her.
I just… stop starting.
If she texts, I reply.
But slower.
Shorter.
I don’t suggest plans.
I don’t send the random thought I would’ve before.
I tell myself I’m protecting the space.
That I’m giving things room.
But really, I’m stepping back inch by inch, hoping the distance will tell me something.
If she notices.
If she asks.
If she pulls closer.
Or lets me go quiet.
