If I Could Hate You

Chapter 11: The Distance Between Us

The news came on a Tuesday morning, and it caught me completely off guard.

I had just finished sorting through logistics reports in the operations tent when my supervisor called me over. Her voice was brisk as always, her eyes sharp but not unkind.

“Sophia,” she said, “we are moving you to Michael’s project.”

For a moment I thought I had misheard her. “Michael’s project?”

She nodded. “Yes. The expansion initiative in the northern district. They need someone who can manage both the human side and the logistics. You are one of our best at balancing both. The board approved it last night.”

I felt my throat tighten. The northern district. Michael’s project.

I forced a smile. “Of course. I will do whatever is needed.”

Inside, my thoughts were spinning. Being reassigned under Michael meant more proximity, more hours, more meetings. Part of me was thrilled at the idea of working closely with him, of proving myself beyond the scattered interactions we had already shared. But another part of me, the part that had begun to recognize the danger of the way I thought of him, quivered with unease.

Still, this was my work, my calling. I reminded myself of that as I gathered my things and headed toward the high rise headquarters that housed the project team.

The first time I saw him that day, it was like colliding with a wall.

Michael was standing near a long conference table, discussing something with two other managers. He was impeccably dressed, as always, his suit tailored to perfection, his hair neatly swept back. But his expression was guarded, his tone clipped.

When his gaze flicked toward me, I expected the familiar warmth that had started to creep into his eyes during our past encounters. Instead, I saw cool detachment. A polite nod, nothing more.

“Welcome to the project, Sophia,” he said evenly. “You will be reporting directly to me. Let us get through today’s agenda.”

His voice was formal, professional, but there was a distance in it that stung more than I wanted to admit.

The meeting itself was a blur of spreadsheets, schedules, and projections. Michael spoke with authority, his focus never wavering from the work. When I offered an idea about streamlining volunteer rotations, he acknowledged it with a nod but nothing else. No spark of encouragement, no lingering glance.

By the time the meeting ended, I felt like I had been left out in the cold.

I told myself it was for the best. Professional boundaries, I reminded myself. He was my superior now, and whatever fragile connection I had imagined before was just that — imagined.

But the ache in my chest refused to listen to reason.

---

The days that followed only deepened the tension.

Michael was polite, unfailingly so, but his politeness carried a weight that pressed me further and further away. He gave me assignments through email when he could have simply spoken to me in person. He addressed me in meetings but never lingered on me, never let his gaze soften as it once had. He was present, yet distant, and it was maddening.

One evening, long after most of the team had gone home, I stayed behind to finish compiling supply lists. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the silence wrapped around me. I was so focused that I did not hear Michael enter until his shadow fell across the table.

“Still here?” he asked, his voice even.

I looked up, startled. “Yes. I just wanted to finish this before tomorrow.”

He glanced at the stacks of papers, then at me. “Do not burn yourself out. Go home.”

His words were kind on the surface, but his tone was cool, distant. It was as though he was speaking through glass, careful not to let me touch anything beneath the surface.

Something in me snapped.

“Why are you treating me like this?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He froze. His eyes, which had been neutral, flickered for just a second — something raw, something unguarded. Then the mask slid back into place.

“I do not know what you mean,” he said evenly.

“Yes, you do,” I pressed. “You were not like this before. You listened, you cared, you…” My voice faltered. I did not want to admit too much, not when I could barely understand my own feelings. “Now you act like I do not exist unless it is work related.”

His jaw tightened. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he turned slightly, his gaze fixed on the window rather than on me.

“This is work, Sophia,” he said finally. “We have responsibilities here. Nothing else matters.”

The finality in his voice felt like a door slamming shut.

I bit my lip, forcing back the sting of tears. “I understand,” I said quietly.

He nodded once, still not meeting my eyes, then left the room without another word.

The silence he left behind was suffocating.

---

That night, lying in bed, I replayed the moment over and over. The way he had looked at me before pulling back. The way his voice had been so carefully controlled, as though he was holding something back with both hands.

I told myself to stop. To focus on my work, on the mission, on the people who needed us. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face. Not the cold version he showed me now, but the one I had glimpsed before — the one filled with something unspoken, something that had reached for me before retreating into shadow.

It was torture, working beside him every day and feeling that invisible wall between us. Yet some stubborn part of me refused to give up. I knew there was something beneath his distance, something he was trying to bury.

And I could not help but wonder — was he protecting me, or himself?

---

The next week brought a new challenge. We were scheduled to visit the northern district site together, to review progress in person. It was a long drive, just the two of us in the back of a sleek company SUV.

The silence in the car was thick enough to choke on. Michael sat beside me, his gaze fixed out the window, his posture stiff. I wanted to say something, anything, to break through the wall he had built. But every time I opened my mouth, the words withered before they reached my lips.

Finally, I forced myself to speak. “Why did you ask for me on this project?”

His head turned slightly, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt, “you could have had anyone on your team. But you asked for me. And now you act like you regret it.”

For a long moment he said nothing. Then he exhaled slowly, his shoulders sinking just a fraction.

“I asked for you because you are good at what you do,” he said carefully. “You see things others miss. That is all.”

“That is all,” I repeated, trying not to let the disappointment show in my voice.

“Yes,” he said firmly, his gaze sliding back to the window.

I stared down at my hands, my chest tight. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to let it go. But I could not shake the feeling that there was more he was not saying.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, the distance between us growing wider with every mile.

---

By the time we returned from the site visit, I had made a decision. If Michael wanted to keep his distance, I would respect that. I would throw myself into the work, give everything I had to the project, and bury whatever fragile hope had started to grow inside me.

But deep down, I knew the truth.

No matter how cold he acted, no matter how hard he tried to push me away, I could still feel it — the pull between us, silent and undeniable, like a current running beneath the surface of everything we did.

And sooner or later, something would have to give.