Episode 9: The Lines We Pretend Not to Cross
1452 Words
There are moments in life where nothing is officially decided…
but everything already feels different.
That’s where we were.
Not together.
Not just friends.
Not anything you could easily explain.
And somehow, that made it more dangerous.
Because unnamed things don’t come with rules.
And without rules—
you don’t know when you’ve gone too far.
The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual.
Not because I had to.
But because my brain refused to stay quiet.
Again.
I stared at the ceiling, replaying yesterday like it was something I could solve if I just thought about it long enough.
“You’re starting to matter.”
I groaned and pulled the pillow over my face.
“Stop thinking,” I muttered.
That lasted about five seconds.
Then my phone buzzed.
I froze.
Slowly reached for it.
Of course.
Aidan:
Are you awake or pretending to be productive?
I stared at the message longer than necessary.
Then typed—
Lia:
I am always productive.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Aidan:
That’s a lie.
Lia:
Prove it.
Pause.
Then—
Aidan:
You’re staring at your phone right now.
I blinked.
Then sat up.
Lia:
That was lucky.
Aidan:
That was predictable.
I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling.
Again.
This was becoming a problem.
Aidan:
Coffee?
There it was.
Simple.
Direct.
Dangerous.
I stared at the message.
This shouldn’t be a big deal.
It’s just coffee.
People get coffee all the time.
But with him—
it never felt like “just.”
I typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Then—
Lia:
You’re very persistent.
Aidan:
I prefer consistent.
I exhaled slowly.
Then gave in.
Lia:
Fine. But I have things to do.
Aidan:
You always have things to do.
Lia:
Exactly.
Aidan:
I’ll take what I can get.
I didn’t respond after that.
Because something about that last message felt too honest.
When I arrived at the café, he was already there.
Of course.
Sitting by the window.
Same place.
Like we had silently agreed that this was ours.
He looked up when I walked in.
And this time—
he didn’t hide the smile.
“Right on time,” he said.
“I’m always on time.”
“You were early last time.”
“That was strategic.”
“That was nervous.”
I sat down across from him.
“I don’t get nervous.”
“Lia,” he said, dead serious, “you get nervous ordering food.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“They judge you.”
“I judge you.”
I paused.
“That’s fair.”
He laughed softly.
And just like that—
it felt easy again.
Too easy.
We ordered.
Sat.
Talked about nothing important.
And somehow, it felt important anyway.
“That professor still hates commas?” he asked.
“Passionately.”
“That’s concerning.”
“He once failed someone for using too many.”
“That sounds personal.”
“It probably is.”
He smiled into his drink.
“I think I’d fail that class.”
“You would.”
“Wow.”
“You don’t follow rules.”
“I follow important ones.”
“And what qualifies as important?”
He looked at me.
“You.”
I froze.
He didn’t even flinch.
Just said it like it was normal.
Like it didn’t shift the air between us.
“That’s not funny,” I said quietly.
“I wasn’t joking.”
Silence.
I looked down at my cup.
Because I didn’t know where to put that.
Didn’t know what to do with words like that.
So I did what I always do.
Deflect.
“You say things too easily.”
He leaned back.
“I say what I think.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“For who?”
“For me.”
That slipped out before I could stop it.
His expression softened.
“Why?”
I shook my head.
“Because I don’t know how to deal with it.”
“Deal with what?”
“This,” I said, gesturing between us. “You being… like this.”
He tilted his head.
“Like what?”
“Honest.”
He smiled faintly.
“And you’re not?”
“I am,” I said. “Just… not like you.”
“How are you?”
I hesitated.
“Careful.”
He nodded slowly.
“That makes sense.”
Silence again.
But not uncomfortable.
Just… aware.
After a while, we left the café.
No rain this time.
Just gray skies and cool air.
We walked side by side without really deciding to.
“So where are you going?” he asked.
“Library.”
“Of course.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re predictable.”
“I’m consistent.”
“Same excuse.”
I nudged him lightly.
“Don’t copy me.”
“Too late.”
We kept walking.
And at some point—
our hands brushed.
Just slightly.
Accidental.
But not really.
I felt it.
He felt it.
We both noticed.
But neither of us pulled away immediately.
And that—
that was the problem.
Because that was a line.
A small one.
But still a line.
And we were standing right on it.
He cleared his throat.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
But it didn’t feel fine.
It felt…
different.
Like something had quietly shifted again.
We reached the library entrance.
I stopped.
“So… this is me.”
He nodded.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us moved.
Then he said—
“Lia.”
I looked at him.
“Hmm?”
He hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then—
“Are we okay?”
The question caught me off guard.
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Things feel… different.”
“They are.”
He nodded.
“Yeah.”
Silence.
Then—
“Does that bother you?” he asked.
I thought about it.
About everything.
About the way he looked at me.
The way he said things without hesitation.
The way I kept showing up even when I told myself not to.
“…A little,” I admitted.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know where this is going.”
“And if you did?”
I looked at him.
“Then maybe I wouldn’t be this confused.”
He smiled faintly.
“I don’t think knowing would make it easier.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But at least it would be clear.”
He stepped a little closer.
Not too much.
Just enough.
“I don’t have clear answers, Lia.”
“I know.”
“But I do know one thing.”
I held my breath.
He looked straight at me.
“I don’t want to lose this.”
That hit harder than anything else.
Because it wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t a confession.
It was simple.
Real.
And somehow—
that made it heavier.
“I don’t want to lose it either,” I said quietly.
There.
Said it.
No taking it back now.
He exhaled slowly.
“Okay.”
Okay.
Such a small word.
But it meant—
we stay.
For now.
I turned to go inside.
But before I could—
he said my name again.
“Lia.”
I looked back.
And before I could think—
before I could analyze—
before I could stop myself—
I stepped forward.
And hugged him.
It wasn’t planned.
It wasn’t logical.
It just happened.
He froze.
Then slowly—
his arms wrapped around me too.
Careful.
Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
And for a moment—
everything went quiet.
No overthinking.
No fear.
No questions.
Just warmth.
Real.
Dangerous.
Necessary.
I pulled away first.
Of course.
Because that’s who I am.
“That didn’t happen,” I said quickly.
He smiled softly.
“It definitely did.”
“Forget it.”
“Not possible.”
I shook my head.
“I have to go.”
“Yeah.”
I turned and walked inside.
Didn’t look back.
Didn’t stop.
Because if I did—
I might not leave.
And that would be worse.
But as I sat in the library, staring at my notes that made absolutely no sense anymore, one thought kept repeating in my head.
We didn’t define anything.
We didn’t fix anything.
We didn’t figure anything out.
And yet—
we crossed something.
Quietly.
Softly.
Without saying it out loud.
And I didn’t know if that was the beginning of something good—
or the start of something that would hurt.
All I knew was this:
I didn’t stop it.
And neither did he.
- Writer
