GLASS ALGORITHMS

DISTANCE

Distance

Distance did not arrive all at once. It slipped in slowly, politely, the way things do when they do not want to be noticed.

At first, nothing was wrong. Or at least nothing that could be pointed at without sounding unreasonable. Finn still called. He still asked how I was. He still said my name the way he always had, like it mattered that he was saying it.

But the spaces between us began to stretch. Where we used to talk until one of us fell asleep, our calls now ended earlier. Where his texts once came with follow up questions, now they ended with periods. Not cold, just finished. Complete in a way that left no room to continue.

I noticed it. Of course I did. I just did not name it. I told myself that mature people did not cling. That confidence meant allowing room. That if something was real, it would not disappear simply because you did not hold onto it tightly.

I decided I would not be the first to text. Not because I was angry. Not because I wanted to test him. But because I wanted to respect whatever rhythm his life had taken on now. He was in his final semester. He had exams. Responsibilities. A future that had been mapped out long before I ever walked into it.

When he called, I answered immediately, careful not to sound like I had been waiting. When he texted, I replied with warmth but not urgency. I learned how to balance care with restraint, even when my chest felt heavy with unsaid things.

The kiss stayed with me longer than I expected. Not in a dramatic way. Not like a scene I replayed obsessively. It lived quietly in my memory, a soft confirmation that what I felt was not imagined. That there was something there, even if neither of us had said what it was. Finn never mentioned it. That should have meant something, but I could not decide what.

Sometimes I wondered if he was giving me space intentionally, letting things settle. Sometimes I wondered if he thought the kiss had been a mistake and was too polite to say so. I never asked. Asking felt like pulling at a loose thread. And I had learned, early in life, that sometimes it was safer to keep things intact than to know the truth.

He told me exams had started. He said it casually, like it explained everything.

“It’s intense right now,” he said over the phone. “Final semester. Everything counts.”

“I understand,” I told him, and I meant it.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “This will pass.”

I held onto that sentence more than I should have. He still showed interest in my work, just less frequently. When I mentioned updates on the app, he listened, but he no longer asked detailed questions. I told myself that meant the technical side had moved beyond him, that other teams were handling it now.

It was a good sign, I reasoned. A sign of progress. But some nights, after our calls ended, I would sit with my phone in my hand and feel a strange restlessness settle in my chest. A quiet fear that I was slowly becoming background noise in his life.

Finn graduated on a bright afternoon that I watched through photos and short videos. He looked different in them. More composed. Surrounded by people who belonged to his world in a way I never quite felt I did. I felt proud of him in a way that surprised me, like his success reflected something hopeful back onto my own life.

He called that night.

“It’s official,” he said. “I start next week.” “Executive already,” I teased softly. “That was fast.”

He laughed.

“It was always going to be fast.”

I wanted to ask what that meant for us, but the word us still felt fragile, like it had not been spoken enough to survive interrogation. His schedule changed after that. Calls became harder to plan. Texts arrived late. Sometimes he forgot to reply entirely, only to apologize later with a quick explanation and a promise to make it up to me.

I accepted every apology without question. I told myself that important people lived like this. That success demanded sacrifice. That love, if it was real, would wait.

I missed him more than I missed the app. That realization came to me one evening while I was reviewing code, my focus slipping in and out. I paused and stared at the screen, suddenly aware that what I wanted most in that moment was not validation or progress or recognition.

I wanted his voice. The thought unsettled me. I had always been careful not to need too much. Needing people had never ended well for me. Need had made me small in places where I should have been protected.

So I buried it. I focused on work. On routines. On keeping myself occupied enough that the quiet would not grow too loud.

Finn stopped mentioning the app altogether. Not deliberately. Just gradually. The way people stop talking about things once they believe the outcome is already decided. I told myself that was what this was. That everything was already in motion. That silence meant confidence.

Still, doubt crept in during the spaces between reassurance. Was I being forgotten, or was I simply waiting? I did not know which answer scared me more. Some nights, I drafted messages and deleted them. Other nights, I fell asleep with my phone beside me, convinced it would light up any second.

It usually did not. And yet, when it did, when his name appeared on my screen, all the tension inside me loosened at once. His voice had not changed. His warmth was still there. His presence still felt familiar.

“You okay,” he asked one evening.

“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Just busy.”

He hummed thoughtfully.

“Good. Don’t burn yourself out.”

I smiled even though he could not see it. I told myself that love did not always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it simply endured.

I chose to believe that was what we were doing.

Enduring.