The Distance Between Us
905 Words
The dream lingered like a scent she couldn't wash off.
Elara spent the morning in a fog, moving through the motions of her routine with mechanical precision. Coffee. Shower. Dressed. She stood in front of her closet for five minutes, staring at rows of blouses and jeans, her mind still trapped in that moonlit forest, still feeling the ghost of Darian's hands on her skin.
She shook her head hard, as if she could physically dislodge the memory.
It was a dream. Just a dream. You're being ridiculous.
She grabbed a plain white top and a pair of black slacks, dressing quickly, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She knew what she'd see—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, the unmistakable glow of a woman who'd been thoroughly f****d, even if only in her sleep.
She didn't want to confront that.
Trevor texted her at noon.
Hey babe. Working late tonight. Don't wait up.
She stared at the message, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. She wanted to ask why. She wanted to ask if everything was okay. She wanted to say I need you tonight. I need you to hold me. I need you to make me forget the dream that's burning a hole in my chest.
Instead, she typed: Okay. See you when you get home.
She hit send and immediately felt hollow.
The afternoon crawled by. She went to the gym, ran five miles on the treadmill, lifted weights until her arms shook. She pushed herself harder than usual, trying to exhaust her body into silence, trying to drown out the voice in her head that kept whispering Darian, Darian, Darian.
It didn't work.
She went home, showered again, ate a salad she didn't taste. She sat on the couch, flipping through Netflix, nothing holding her attention. Every show felt flat. Every song felt empty. Every moment felt like she was waiting for something—someone—who wasn't coming.
By nine o'clock, she was restless, her skin prickling with an energy she couldn't name. She paced the apartment, her bare feet padding across the hardwood floor, her wolf pacing inside her, matching her stride for stride.
Something's wrong, her wolf growled. Something's coming.
"Nothing's coming," she said out loud. "I'm just bored."
But she didn't believe it.
Trevor came home at eleven.
She heard his key in the lock, the familiar click of the door opening, the jingle of his keys as he dropped them in the bowl by the entrance. She was sitting on the couch, pretending to read a book, her heart pounding for reasons she didn't want to examine.
"Hey," he said, his voice tired.
"Hey."
He walked past her, dropping a kiss on the top of her head—a perfunctory gesture, a habit, nothing more. He smelled like coffee and office air and something else, something faint and floral that made her stomach clench.
Perfume.
She told herself it was nothing. He worked with women. He probably hugged a coworker goodbye, or stood too close to someone at the water cooler. It was innocent. It had to be innocent.
But the doubt had already taken root, and it was growing fast.
"Long day?" she asked, keeping her voice light.
"Yeah. Big project. Stressful."
He disappeared into the bedroom, and she heard the rustle of clothes, the creak of the bed as he sat down to take off his shoes. She waited for him to come back. He didn't.
She set her book aside and walked to the bedroom doorway.
He was lying on the bed, still in his work pants, his phone in his hand. He glanced up when she appeared, then looked back down.
"Coming to bed?" he asked.
"In a minute."
He grunted. That grunt again. The one that said I heard you but I don't really care.
She leaned against the doorframe, watching him. His thumb moved across the screen, scrolling through something. He didn't look at her again.
"Trevor?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you ever feel like something's missing?"
He paused, his thumb hovering. He looked up, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean... between us. Do you ever feel like we're just going through the motions?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed, setting his phone down, rubbing his eyes.
"Babe, I'm tired. Can we not do this right now?"
"Do what? Talk?"
"Fight. I don't have the energy for a fight."
"I'm not trying to fight. I'm trying to—" She stopped, her throat tight. "I'm trying to feel close to you."
He looked at her, really looked at her, and for a second, she saw something flicker in his eyes. Guilt? Sadness? She couldn't tell.
Then he patted the bed beside him. "Come here."
She walked over and lay down beside him. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her against his chest. She pressed her ear to his heartbeat, listening to its steady rhythm.
"I love you," he said, his voice soft.
"I love you too," she whispered.
But the words felt hollow, like stones dropped into an empty well.
She lay there, in his arms, and thought about golden eyes and a voice that growled mine. She thought about a forest where she'd felt more alive than she'd ever felt in this bed, in this apartment, in this life.
And she knew, with a certainty that terrified her, that something was very, very wrong.
- Writer
