Borrowed Time
479 Words
Adrian had always kept things to himself — not out of pride, but protection.
For most of his life, silence had been safer than honesty. But now, with Alina beside him, that silence felt heavier. Like it was costing him something he couldn’t afford to lose.
They sat at the edge of the lake that weekend, legs dangling from the dock, shoes abandoned in the grass behind them.
Alina tossed tiny stones into the water, watching the ripples distort the sky’s reflection.
“Do you ever think about how fast everything changes?” she asked.
Adrian glanced at her, careful. “All the time.”
“It’s terrifying,” she said. “But sometimes... I think it’s beautiful, too. That nothing stays. That even pain eventually fades.”
He didn’t answer right away.
Because not everything faded.
Some things grew louder with time. Like guilt. Like fear. Like the ache of wanting more days than you knew you had.
---
That night, he stared at the envelope tucked into his drawer.
The test results. The ones he hadn’t opened.
Not yet.
A part of him believed if he didn’t read them, they couldn’t be real.
But deep down, he already knew.
He felt it in the fatigue, in the way he got lightheaded doing nothing, in the tightness in his chest he kept pretending was just stress.
He had promised himself he’d wait until after midterms.
Then after Alina’s birthday.
Now, he just kept making excuses. Because the truth would change everything. And he wasn’t ready to lose the only peace he’d ever found — her.
---
Alina noticed it before he said anything.
He flinched more when people brushed against him. He’d started zoning out in the middle of conversations. His laugh — once quiet and steady — now sounded hollow around the edges.
And one afternoon, when he reached for her hand, it trembled.
She didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t want to push.
But that night, she called Mia.
“I think something’s wrong.”
“With Adrian?”
“Yeah.”
Mia sighed. “Have you asked him?”
“I did. He said he’s just tired.”
“Do you believe him?”
Alina closed her eyes. “I want to.”
---
The next day, she left a note in his notebook. No questions. Just a line of poetry.
> “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.”
It was from Eliot. The poem they both loved. The one about growing older and wasting time and being afraid to speak.
He read it in the middle of class.
And for the first time, Adrian cried.
Silently. Subtly. Head down, pen still in his hand.
Because he knew what she was really saying:
> I see you, even when you’re hiding.
And he didn’t know how long he could hide anymore.
- Writer
