A Love Meant to Be

The Distance Grows

The silence between them had started small, like a c***k in glass, barely visible if you didn't look too closely. But now, it was spreading, threatening to shatter everything Ethan thought he understood about her.

Marla sat across the café table, staring into her untouched cappuccino as though the foam held secrets only she could read. She wasn't angry, not, she wasn't raising her voice, she wasn't even rolling her eyes the way she did when he pushed too far. She was simply quiet. And it was worse than any argument.

Ethan shifted, drumming his fingers against the wooden table. "You're doing that thing again," he said lightly.

Her gaze flicked up, cautious. "What thing?"

"The disappearing act. You're here, but you're not." He forced a grin. "Like one of those holograms in a sci-fi film. I reach out, and poof, you flicker."

Marla's lips twitched, almost betraying a smile, but it didn't last. She stirred her coffee instead, the spoon clinking against porcelain.

The sound grated on him. Not because it was loud, it wasn't, but because it was mechanical. Detached.

"Marla." He leaned forward. "Talk to me."

She sighed, finally meeting his eyes. And there it was, that guarded wall again. Her gaze was steady, but her shoulders were taut, her every movement careful, like she was calculating how much of herself she could afford to let him see.

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want..." He stopped, searching. What did he want? An explanation? A confession? A fight, even? Anything that would prove she still cared enough to spar with him. "I want you to stop shutting me out."

She gave a small laugh. "Maybe I don't have anything worth saying."

"That's the biggest lie you've ever told me."

Her spoon stilled. Her throat moved, like she was swallowing words she refused to let out.

Ethan hated this. He hated the invisible distance creeping between them. He wanted to tear it down, grab her hand, force her to look at him, and see him the way she used to. But he also knew, pressed too hard, and she'd retreat further.

So he tried a different tactic.

"Remember the rooftop?" he said, his voice gentler now. "That night, the fireworks went off early for some festival we didn't even know about?"

Her face softened at the memory despite herself. "You mean the night you nearly fell trying to get the best view?"

"Correction, the night I heroically risked my life for a view that turned out to be blocked by a giant neon billboard."

This time, she did smile. Brief. Fragile. But real.

He leaned into it. "You laughed so hard you spilt wine all over your dress. And you didn't even care. You just kept laughing."

Her smile faltered, and she looked down again. "That feels like another lifetime."

"It doesn't have to be," he pressed.

She went quiet. Again. And the silence thickened, heavy enough to choke on.

Later, as they walked through the rain-slick streets of Soho, Ethan tried again. He cracked jokes about the tourists with oversized umbrellas, pointed out absurd shop displays, and even hummed a ridiculous tune under his breath. She chuckled once or twice, but her laughter didn't linger; it disappeared into the night like smoke.

Finally, he stopped walking. "Okay, enough. I can't keep pretending this is fine."

Marla froze, and her umbrella tilted at an awkward angle. "Ethan -"

"No," he cut in, his voice sharper than intended. "You've been... off. Distant. And I get it, you don't owe me a diary of your every thought, but this, this wall between us? It's killing me."

Rain drummed on the pavement, filling the pause she left.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low. "You think it's easy for me? Do you think I want to pull away?"

He blinked, startled by the edge in her tone.

She took a shaky breath. "I don't... I don't know how to let people in, Ethan. Every time I do, it ends badly. So maybe I'm just trying to protect myself."

His chest tightened. This was it, the raw truth bleeding through the cracks.

"You don't have to protect yourself from me," he said softly.

"You say that now." Her laugh was brittle. "But people change. Promises fade. And when it happens, I'll be the one left trying to patch myself back together."

He wanted to argue, to insist he was different. But her eyes, tired, haunted, wary, stopped him. She'd heard those promises before. Believed them. I've been burned.

So instead, he whispered, "Then let me prove it. One day at a time. No promises, no grand speeches. Just me, showing up."

For a moment, he thought he saw her defences waver. The smallest flicker of hope. But then she turned away, pulling her coat tighter around herself.

"Goodnight, Ethan."

And just like that, she walked ahead, leaving him in the rain.

Over the next week, the distance grew.

Text messages went unanswered for hours. Calls went to voicemail. When they did meet, her words were clipped, her smiles careful. Ethan tried everything, sending her songs that reminded him of her, buying her favourite pastries, even showing up at her office under the pretence of "accidentally being nearby.""

She thanked him politely. And that was worse than indifference.

By Thursday night, he was pacing his flat, staring at his phone like it might magically solve the problem for him. He typed out messages and deleted them. "We need to talk." Too pushy. "I miss you." Too vulnerable. "Dinner?" Too casual.

Finally, he just called. Straight to voicemail. Again.

Frustration boiled over. He grabbed his jacket, stormed out, and found himself outside her building before he'd even decided what he was doing.

When she opened the door, hair tousled, oversized sweater hanging off one shoulder, her eyes widened. "Ethan? What are you -"

"I can't do this," he blurted. "I can't sit around wondering if you're shutting me out forever. If you don't want me here, say it. Say the word, and I'll leave you alone. But don't, don't keep me dangling in silence."

She looked stunned, her lips parted but no sound coming out.

The air between them buzzed with tension. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat.

Finally, she whispered, "I never said I didn't want you here."

"Then why does it feel like you're already gone?"

Her eyes shimmered, but she blinked the tears back before they could fall. She stepped aside, letting him in without a word.

Inside, her flat was dim, the only light spilling from a lamp in the corner. The quiet wrapped around them, thick and suffocating.

Ethan turned to face her. "Please. Talk to me. Yell at me. Something. Just don't shut me out."

She sank onto the couch, burying her face in her hands. "You don't understand, Ethan. I'm terrified. The closer you get, the more it feels like I'm setting myself up to lose everything."

He knelt in front of her, gently pulling her hands away. "Then let's be terrified together. I'd rather fight through the fear than lose you to silence."

Her breath hitched. Her eyes searched his, like she was weighing whether to believe him or run.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn't look away.

The distance hadn't vanished. Not yet. But for the first time, Ethan felt like maybe, just maybe, the cracks could be mended.

Just as the air shifted, her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She glanced at the screen, and the colour drained from her face. Ethan didn't even need to ask. He could see it in her eyes. Whoever it was, whatever it meant, it was another wall rising between them.