Chapter Four: When Things Start to Feel Too Real
786 Words
I told myself I was imagining the change.
That whatever had shifted between Nelson and me existed only in my head—an exaggeration born out of too much proximity and not enough distraction. People didn’t just accidentally fall into something meaningful. Not without warning. Not without intention.
And yet.
The next morning, I woke up already thinking about him.
That alone irritated me.
I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, brushing my teeth with more force than necessary, mentally listing reasons why this was a bad idea. Nelson was unpredictable. Loud. Emotionally confusing. He smiled like he knew secrets he wasn’t sharing. He disrupted my carefully structured life and made me feel things I didn’t have time to unpack.
This was not love.
This was inconvenience.
Still, I changed outfits twice before leaving my apartment.
When I opened my door, Nelson was already in the hallway, locking his own apartment. He looked effortlessly put together—dark jeans, plain shirt, sleeves rolled up again like he had a personal vendetta against long sleeves.
“Morning, Elizabeth,” he said, like my name belonged comfortably on his tongue.
“Morning,” I replied, hating how soft my voice sounded.
We walked toward the elevator together in a silence that felt louder than our conversations ever had. I could sense him beside me—his warmth, his presence, the way his arm brushed mine when the hallway narrowed.
The elevator doors slid open, and we stepped inside.
Too close.
The doors closed.
Too quiet.
“So,” he said casually, “are you avoiding me, or am I just imagining things?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You’ve been quieter,” he continued. “More guarded.”
I crossed my arms. “Maybe I’m just busy.”
He tilted his head, studying me. “You do that when you’re lying.”
“I do not.”
“You touch your elbow,” he said gently. “Like that.”
I dropped my arm instantly. “Stop paying attention to me.”
“I can’t,” he said again. Softer this time.
The elevator dinged, saving me from responding.
That should have been my moment to escape—to walk away, put distance between us, reclaim my calm. Instead, I followed him out into the morning light, matching his pace without thinking.
We stopped outside the building.
“Well,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I’ll see you later?”
Something about the way he asked made my chest tighten.
“Yes,” I said, too quickly. “Later.”
He smiled, and I walked away before I could do something reckless—like ask him to stay.
That evening, I learned a very important lesson.
Nelson was not just chaos.
He was temptation.
I had just finished cooking dinner when a knock sounded at my door. Not loud. Not playful.
Careful.
When I opened it, Nelson stood there holding a small paper bag.
“I come in peace,” he said. “I brought dessert.”
“I didn’t invite you,” I replied.
“I know,” he said. “But you didn’t say no yet either.”
I sighed and stepped aside.
Inside my apartment, the energy shifted immediately. He wasn’t joking as much. Wasn’t filling the space with noise. He seemed… thoughtful. Almost nervous.
We sat at the small dining table, sharing dessert in near silence.
“This is new,” I finally said.
“What is?”
“You being quiet.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I’m trying something different.”
“And how’s that going for you?”
He met my gaze. “Terribly.”
I laughed despite myself.
Then his expression changed. Serious. Intent.
“Elizabeth,” he said, “can I ask you something?”
I hesitated. “That depends.”
“Do you feel this too?” he asked. “Whatever this is.”
The air felt heavier. Charged.
I could have denied it. Should have.
Instead, I whispered, “I don’t know.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s honest.”
We sat there, emotions stretching thin between us, neither willing to cross the line but neither stepping back.
When he stood to leave, he paused near the door.
“This doesn’t have to be complicated,” he said quietly.
I swallowed. “Things like this always are.”
He searched my face like he was memorizing it. “Goodnight, Elizabeth.”
“Goodnight, Nelson.”
After he left, I pressed my back against the door, heart pounding.
I wasn’t losing control.
I was standing right at the edge of it.
And the scariest part?
I wasn’t sure I wanted to step away.
- Writer
