A few seconds pass.
They appear again.
Disappear.
I let out a slow breath and rest my head against the wall behind me. I don’t feel angry. I don’t even feel surprised. This is what he does when something matters—when everything is on the line—he hesitates.
I know he cares about me, and I know he feels something beyond friendship. I’ve seen it too many times to pretend otherwise. But whenever the moment comes for him to step fully into it, something inside him pulls back.
He hesitates.
And I can’t be the one dragging him forward.
I type again.
I don’t want to guess, Luke. And I don’t want to fight for someone who doesn’t fight for me.
I stare at the message for a long moment. It feels honest and fair. It also feels like asking him to define something he isn’t ready to define.
I slowly delete it.
If he truly wants me, he won’t need me to corner him into saying so. I set the phone on my nightstand. The screen stays lit for a moment before it fades to black. I don’t turn it off this time. I don’t block him out. I just let the silence settle between us.
If he sends anything else, I’ll read it. If he doesn’t… that tells me something, too.
I lie back against my pillows and press a cool, wet washcloth over my eyes, not because I’m crying, but because everything feels too warm and too tight in my chest.
He wants me, but wanting isn’t the same as claiming. Until he’s ready to claim me, I have to protect my heart.
I don’t sleep well. Not because I’m crying. Not because I’m dramatic. But because my mind won’t quiet. Every time I drift off, I see that single word again.
You.
It should have been enough, but it wasn’t. I won’t settle for less than I deserve.
When my alarm goes off at six, I’m already awake. The house is still and gray in the early light, and for a moment I consider rolling back over and letting the day wait.
But lying there only gives my thoughts more room to roam. So I get up and rifle through my drawers, the soft scrape of wood and the cool touch of fabric grounding me as I search for the shirt and shorts I want to wear for my early-morning run. The anticipation of movement—of air against my skin and the steady thud of my feet—feels like a small promise of relief, something I can control when everything else feels uncertain.
Running has always been the one thing that clears my head without asking any questions. I lace up my shoes, tie my hair back, and step outside before I can change my mind.
The air is cool, and the first mile feels stiff, with my legs heavy from too little sleep. By the second mile, my breathing evens out, and my thoughts organize themselves instead of crashing into one another.
Luke didn’t say we were just friends because he doesn’t care about it.
He said it because he’s afraid. That doesn’t make it hurt any less, but it makes it clearer. I don’t doubt he feels something for me. I’ve never doubted that. What I doubt is whether he’ll ever feel brave enough to stand by it.
And I refuse to be anyone’salmost.
By the time I’m five miles in, the pain in my chest has settled into something steadier. Not gone. Just quieter. More manageable. If he wants me, truly wants me, he’ll say so. If he doesn’t, I’ll survive. I’ve survived worse than uncertainty.
I push harder in the final stretch, not to punish myself but to remind myself what strength feels like. Sweat stings my eyes, and my lungs strain with the effort, but the rhythm grounds me.
When I turn onto my street, my gaze automatically lifts toward my driveway. His truck isn’t there. Relief and disappointment hit at the same time. I’m not sure which wins.
Inside, I shower, letting the hot water loosen the tightness in my shoulders, then get dressed. My phone sits on the nightstand where I left it. I power it on and see the messages he sent after I went quiet.
But I don’t deserve you.
