Episode 15: The Distance Between What We Said and What We Meant
1382 Words
I thought walking away would make it easier.
It didn’t.
It just made everything louder.
The moment I stepped out of the hospital, the air felt heavier than usual.
Like the world hadn’t changed—
but I had.
Every step I took felt wrong.
Too fast.
Too slow.
Too far from where I wanted to be.
But I kept walking anyway.
Because stopping meant thinking.
And thinking meant feeling.
And feeling right now?
That was dangerous.
“Lia!”
I stopped.
Of course I did.
I closed my eyes for a second before turning around.
Aidan was standing a few steps behind me, slightly out of breath.
“You walk fast,” he said.
I crossed my arms.
“You lied.”
Straight to the point.
No space for anything else.
His expression tightened.
“I didn’t lie.”
“You didn’t tell me,” I corrected. “Same thing.”
“It’s not the same.”
“It feels the same.”
Silence.
The kind that doesn’t leave room for excuses.
“I was going to tell you,” he said again.
“When?” I asked.
He didn’t answer immediately.
And that hesitation?
That hesitation said everything.
“That’s what I thought,” I muttered.
“Lia, it’s not that simple.”
“Then make it simple,” I said. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you made a decision about your life and forgot to include me in it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is finding out from a stranger,” I snapped.
That hit.
I saw it.
But I didn’t stop.
Because now that it was out—
everything I had been holding back was coming with it.
“You said I mattered,” I continued, my voice quieter now but sharper. “You said this mattered.”
“It does.”
“Then why didn’t you act like it?”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“I didn’t want to lose this.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You might have already.”
The words hung there.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
He stepped closer.
Not too close.
Just enough to feel like he was trying.
“I didn’t tell you because I was scared,” he admitted.
“Of what?” I asked.
“That this would happen.”
I shook my head.
“This is happening because you didn’t tell me.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
“And you still waited.”
“I thought if I waited, I’d figure out how to say it without ruining everything.”
“And did you?” I challenged.
He didn’t answer.
Because he couldn’t.
I looked away.
Because looking at him made it harder.
Made me hesitate.
Made me feel things I didn’t want to feel right now.
“You’re leaving,” I said.
“Yes.”
“For a year.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think I deserved to know that?”
“I did,” he said immediately.
“Then why didn’t you act like it?”
Silence.
Again.
And this time—
it felt final.
“I hate this,” I admitted.
He looked at me.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t,” I said. “Because you’re not the one standing here trying to figure out what this even is anymore.”
“I am,” he said.
“Then tell me,” I challenged. “What is this?”
He froze.
Just for a second.
But that second—
that hesitation—
that was enough.
“You don’t even know,” I whispered.
“I do,” he said.
“Then say it.”
Silence.
I waited.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t say the one thing I needed him to say.
And that—
that hurt more than anything else.
“Exactly,” I said softly.
“Lia—”
“No,” I cut him off. “You don’t get to look at me like that and not say it.”
“I’m trying to—”
“Try harder.”
The words came out sharper than I intended.
But I didn’t take them back.
Because this mattered.
Because he mattered.
And I needed to know if I mattered enough.
“I care about you,” he said finally.
I laughed.
“That’s not enough.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you saying it like it is?”
“Because it’s the truth.”
I shook my head.
“No,” I said. “That’s the safe version of the truth.”
He looked at me.
Confused.
Frustrated.
“What do you want me to say?” he asked.
I stepped closer.
Not backing down.
“Say the thing you’re avoiding.”
“And what is that?”
“You know what it is.”
Silence.
Again.
Always silence when it mattered most.
“I can’t,” he said finally.
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“Because if I say it… it makes this harder.”
I let out a shaky breath.
“It’s already hard.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you still holding back?”
He looked at me like he didn’t have an answer.
And maybe he didn’t.
But that didn’t make it hurt any less.
“So what happens now?” I asked quietly.
He hesitated.
“I don’t know.”
I nodded slowly.
“Of course you don’t.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want this.”
“Then what do you want?” I asked.
He stepped closer again.
This time—
closer than before.
“I want you,” he said.
My heart stopped.
Just for a second.
But that second was enough.
“Then why does it feel like you’re already letting me go?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Because he couldn’t.
Because maybe—
that was exactly what he was doing.
I stepped back.
Again.
Creating space.
Because I needed it.
Because I couldn’t breathe with him this close—
not when everything felt like it was falling apart.
“I don’t do temporary,” I said.
“This doesn’t have to be temporary.”
“You’re leaving.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It does,” I said firmly. “It changes everything.”
Silence.
Then—
“Are you saying you want to end this?” he asked.
I froze.
Because that wasn’t what I wanted.
Not really.
But staying like this—
hurting like this—
not knowing—
that wasn’t something I could handle either.
“I’m saying I don’t know how to do this,” I admitted.
He nodded.
“Me neither.”
And that—
that honesty—
hurt more than a lie would have.
We stood there.
Two people.
Same place.
Same feelings.
Different directions.
And somehow—
that was the problem.
“I wish you told me earlier,” I said softly.
“I know.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t feel like this.”
“Maybe.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
Silence.
Then—
“I’m sorry.”
I nodded.
“I know you are.”
I turned away again.
This time—
more slowly.
Not running.
Not escaping.
Just… choosing distance.
Because right now—
distance felt safer than staying.
“Lia.”
I stopped.
But I didn’t turn around.
“If I asked you to stay…” he said quietly, “would you?”
My chest tightened.
Because that question—
that question was unfair.
Because he already knew the answer.
And so did I.
“…I already did,” I said softly.
And that was the truth.
I walked away.
This time—
I didn’t stop.
Didn’t look back.
Didn’t wait.
Because if I did—
I might break.
And I couldn’t afford to break.
Not now.
But as I kept walking—
one thought stayed with me.
Clear.
Painful.
Unavoidable.
We weren’t over.
Not really.
But we weren’t okay either.
And sometimes—
that’s worse.
Because being almost something…
means you still have something to lose.
And I was starting to realize—
I already had.
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