Borrowed Affection

Cracks

There’s this weird stillness in the house today. Like even the walls are waiting for something. I can hear the refrigerator hum and the distant chatter of neighbors outside, but inside, it’s just me, my thoughts, and the soft ticking of the clock above Mom’s favorite painting the one with the blue poppies she says reminds her of “what peace should feel like.”

I wish I felt peace.

I’ve been on my phone more than I’d like to admit. Refreshing i********:, not because anything is new, but because sometimes scrolling is easier than thinking. Than feeling and maybe I've been chatting constantly with Mr Ethan .

It started with a simple “hello.” That message from Mr. Whitaker sat in my DMs for a whole day before I even thought of replying. And by “thought,” I mean I debated it so hard that I convinced myself I was overreacting, then underreacting, then being weird. He wasn’t flirting. It wasn’t inappropriate. It was just… a hello.

Honestly, my content lately has been more “soft life and shadows” than anything else. Moody filters, cropped corners, eyes cut out. I’m not hiding not really I’m just not exposing.

I finally replied the next morning. Just a simple “hi.” No emoji. No energy. Just “hi.”

He responded almost immediately.

“Didn’t think you’d reply. Nice to meet you properly this time.”

Properly? We’ve never actually met. I only know him from that school event, and even then, it was from a distance. I noticed his suit. The way he carried himself. The salt-and-pepper beard that somehow looked deliberate. Clean, sharp, like he’d planned every detail.

He probably had.

That’s the thing about men like him they always seem put together. Controlled. Measured. But I’ve learned that doesn’t mean they’re safe.

Still… I replied.

“Nice to meet you too. Wasn’t sure if this was intentional or accidental.”

He sent a laughing emoji.

“Intentional. I thought your post about silence was interesting. You write well.”

And that was it. That was the spark.

I re-read that line at least six times.

You write well.

No one says that anymore. People comment “🔥” or “you ate” or “mood.” But not you write well.

We’ve been talking since then. Not every hour, not even every day. But when he messages, it’s always thoughtful. Always deliberate.

Sometimes we talk about books. I told him I’m currently re-reading The Bell Jar and he asked, “Why do all smart girls gravitate toward sadness in literature?” I told him it’s not about sadness it’s about reflection. Knowing you’re not the only one who feels split in half by the world.

He said that was “a beautiful way to put it.”

I didn’t tell him how much that compliment meant to me. I didn’t tell him I screenshotted it and stared at it longer than necessary.

He never flirts. But there’s a weight in his words. Like he knows the effect he has. And maybe that’s more dangerous than outright flirting.

I don’t know what I feel about him. I like him, somehow. But it’s not like-liking. It’s more like… curiosity with a pulse. Admiration wrapped in suspicion. He’s older. He has presence. And when someone like that notices someone like me quiet, uncertain, and halfway hiding behind moody posts it does something.

I know I’m not naive. Not the way Mom thinks.

She still watches me like I’m made of glass. Like I’ll break if she blinks too long.

Yesterday, Ella came over. I needed the distraction.

We sat in the living room, legs curled on the couch, drinks in hand. Something fruity and fizzy we picked up from the corner store. Not enough to get drunk just enough to take the edge off.

“You’ve been smiling at your phone like it’s sending you love notes is it Ethan?”

I tried to play it cool. “Yeah..... We’re just talking.”

Ella raised a brow. “Carla. You don’t ‘just talk’ to someone and then smile like that.”

I told her the basics. That we’ve been talking about books, music, life. I left out the parts where his words made me feel a ache inside.She whistled. “Girl, you better be careful. He’s older,nd experienced.”

I laughed. “What does that even mean?”

“It means be careful. Men like that don’t just message girls like us without a reason. And even if they don’t say it, sometimes they’re waiting for you to make it okay for them to cross a line.”

Her words stuck with me.

She wasn’t judging. Just honest. And I needed that.

We laughed about other things. About school. Our annoying final-year projects. The way professors forget we have lives outside their office hours. We talked about Ella’s situationship with her ex, and how she keeps blocking and unblocking him. I called her unserious, and she called me dramatic. We drank. We danced to an old playlist from freshman year. For a moment, everything was light.

Then Mom came home.

Ella and I sobered up instantly. Not that we were drunk but Mom has a way of pulling reality back into the room like a cold wind.

She gave Ella a polite nod, but her eyes scanned the room. The half-empty glasses. My phone on the table, screen glowing from a paused DM.

I knew she noticed.

But she didn’t say anything not yet. Just told me to clean up and come help her prep dinner.

Later that night, lying in bed, I opened my chat with Ethan again.

“Rough day?” he had messaged, maybe noticing I was quiet.

I hovered over the reply box, fingers stiff.

Yes.

No.

Sort of.

Instead, I typed:

“You ever feel like you’re walking a tightrope between who you want to be and who people think you are?”

He replied almost instantly.

“Every day.”

And that’s when I felt it. That subtle click like someone unlocked a door I didn’t know I’d closed.

I don’t know what this is between us. I don’t know what it will be. But I know what it feels like right now:

A pause. A breath. A flicker of something that might be light or fire or a warning sign.

Maybe all three.

And maybe… that’s okay. For now.