Until We Meet Again.

Episode 10: The Almost We Don’t Talk About

There are things worse than not knowing.

Worse than confusion.

Worse than uncertainty.

And that is, knowing something is happening... but refusing to give it a name.

That’s where we were.

And I didn’t know how much longer we could stay there.

The hug shouldn’t have mattered that much.

It was just a hug.

People hug all the time.

Friends hug.

Strangers hug.

People who don’t overthink every single thing in their lives hug without turning it into a full emotional crisis.

Unfortunately, I was not one of those people.

Because the moment I sat down in the library, opened my notes, and tried to act like a normal, functioning human being—

my brain said no.

Absolutely not.

Instead, it replayed everything.

The way his arms hesitated before holding me.

The way he didn’t let go immediately.

The way it felt… safe.

I dropped my pen.

“This is so stupid,” I whispered to myself.

A girl two tables away looked at me.

I pretended nothing happened.

Because clearly, I was losing my mind.

My phone buzzed.

I didn’t want to check it.

Which meant I absolutely checked it.

Aidan:

Did you survive the library or did it defeat you?

I stared at the message.

Then typed.

Lia:

I’m studying.

Three dots.

Aidan:

Liar.

I rolled my eyes.

Lia:

I am literally holding a pen right now.

Aidan:

And not using it.

I paused.

Then slowly looked down at my hand.

He was right.

Again.

I hate that.

Lia:

You’re annoying.

Aidan:

And yet you keep replying.

I didn’t respond.

Because that was true.

And I didn’t like it.

A few seconds passed.

Then—

Aidan:

Did I make things weird?

I froze.

There it was.

The thing we weren’t supposed to talk about.

The thing we both felt.

The thing we both pretended didn’t matter.

I stared at the message for too long.

Then typed carefully.

Lia:

No.

Pause.

Then added—

Lia:

Did I?

Three dots.

Gone.

Back again.

Then—

Aidan:

No.

I exhaled slowly.

We were lying.

Both of us.

But maybe that was easier.

Maybe that was safer.

That night, I couldn’t focus.

Again.

Which was becoming a pattern.

I sat on my bed, staring at my notes like they personally offended me.

My phone buzzed.

I didn’t need to check.

I already knew.

“…Hi,” I answered.

“Hi.”

His voice.

Soft.

Familiar.

Dangerous.

I lay back against my pillow.

“What do you want?”

“That’s harsh.”

“That’s honest.”

He laughed quietly.

“I like honest.”

“I don’t.”

“That explains a lot.”

I smiled despite myself.

Then silence.

But not empty.

Just… waiting.

Then he spoke again.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You always do.”

“Do you regret it?”

My heart stopped for a second.

“…What?”

“The hug.”

Of course.

Of course that’s what he meant.

I closed my eyes.

Why was everything with him so direct?

Why couldn’t we just pretend?

“Lia?”

I sighed.

“No.”

The answer came out softer than I expected.

More honest than I planned.

He was quiet.

Then—

“Me neither.”

Something about that made my chest feel tight.

Not painful.

Just… full.

“Then why does it feel like we’re pretending it didn’t happen?” I asked.

“Because we are.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I know.”

I sat up.

“This is exactly what I don’t like.”

“What?”

“This in-between.”

He didn’t interrupt.

So I continued.

“This not knowing. This not defining. This… almost.”

He repeated the word softly.

“Almost.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

Then—

“What if almost is enough?” he said.

I frowned.

“That makes no sense.”

“It does.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said. “Almost means unfinished. Uncertain. Temporary.”

“Or,” he said, “it means something that’s still becoming.”

I paused.

Because that…

was different.

“That sounds nice,” I admitted.

“But?” he asked.

“But I don’t trust it.”

He didn’t respond right away.

Then—

“Do you trust me?”

The question hit deeper than it should have.

Because it wasn’t simple.

Not really.

But I answered anyway.

“…I think I do.”

He exhaled softly.

“I’ll take that.”

Another silence.

Then he said—

“I don’t want to rush this.”

I blinked.

“This?”

“Whatever this is.”

I leaned back.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Why?”

“Because it still doesn’t tell me what it is.”

He laughed quietly.

“You really need labels, don’t you?”

“I need clarity.”

“And I need time.”

There it was.

The difference.

Clear.

Simple.

Complicated.

“So what happens now?” I asked.

“We keep going.”

“Going where?”

He smiled—I could hear it in his voice.

“Forward.”

“That’s vague.”

“That’s honest.”

I sighed.

“You’re impossible.”

“You like me anyway.”

I didn’t answer.

Because that was becoming dangerously true.

“Lia,” he said softly.

“Hmm?”

“Can I tell you something?”

“That depends.”

“It’s not a joke this time.”

I sat up straighter.

“Okay.”

A pause.

Then—

“I think about you more than I should.”

My breath caught.

Just slightly.

But enough.

“That’s not my problem,” I said quickly.

“That’s a defense mechanism.”

“That’s a fact.”

He laughed softly.

“Sure.”

Silence again.

Then I said quietly—

“I think about you too.”

There.

Said it.

No taking it back.

No pretending.

Just truth.

And somehow—

that felt heavier than anything else.

We stayed on the phone longer than usual that night.

Talking.

Arguing.

Laughing.

Avoiding the real topic.

Coming back to it anyway.

“Do you think this will last?” I asked at one point.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then—

“I don’t know.”

That honesty again.

Raw.

Uncomfortable.

Real.

“But I know I don’t want it to end right now,” he added.

I swallowed.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Same.”

And that was enough.

For now.

When the call ended, I stared at my phone.

Longer than I should have.

Thinking.

Overthinking.

Feeling.

Everything at once.

Because this wasn’t simple anymore.

It wasn’t just conversations.

It wasn’t just late-night calls.

It wasn’t just coffee.

It was something more.

Something real.

Something undefined.

And maybe that was the problem.

Or maybe—

that was the point.

The next morning, I looked at myself in the mirror.

Same face.

Same person.

Same life.

But something felt different.

Not dramatic.

Not obvious.

Just… shifted.

Like something inside me had quietly changed.

And I couldn’t undo it.

Because here’s the truth I didn’t want to admit:

We weren’t just “almost” anymore.

We were something.

Something without a name.

Something without a guarantee.

Something without a clear ending.

And yet—

I stayed.

Because even without certainty…

even without answers…

even without knowing what this would become—

being with him felt like something I didn’t want to lose.

And maybe that was reckless.

Maybe that was a mistake.

But for the first time in a long time—

I wasn’t choosing safety.

I was choosing feeling.

And that terrified me.

Because feelings don’t come with plans.

They don’t follow rules.

They don’t ask permission.

They just happen.

And once they do—

you can’t pretend they don’t exist.

Not anymore.