Chapter Seven: The Almost-Walk-Away
642 Words
Holding Nelson’s hand felt like stepping onto unstable ground.
Not because his grip was unsure—if anything, it was steady, grounding—but because I was. The moment lingered longer than it should have, and when I finally pulled away, it wasn’t relief I felt.
It was disappointment.
We walked back to the building in silence, close but not touching, both of us lost in thoughts neither wanted to say out loud. At my door, I paused.
“So,” I said, gesturing vaguely between us, “this doesn’t mean… labels. Or expectations.”
Nelson nodded. “I’m not asking for either.”
“Good,” I said quickly.
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Elizabeth… just so you know, I don’t do meaningless.”
My chest tightened. “Neither do I.”
That was the problem.
The next few days were a careful dance. We existed in a strange in-between—more than neighbors, less than anything definable. He brought me coffee without knocking. I cooked dinner and left a plate outside his door. We talked late into the night through the thin wall separating our apartments, laughing quietly like teenagers trying not to get caught.
It was intimate.
Too intimate.
And intimacy, I was learning, scared me more than loneliness ever had.
Then came the phone call.
I was in my kitchen, chopping vegetables, when Nelson knocked—once, twice, then a third time, sharper than usual.
When I opened the door, he looked unsettled.
“My sister’s coming to stay for a few days,” he said. “She’s… a lot.”
I laughed. “That explains you.”
He chuckled, then grew serious. “She has questions. About why I’m here. About what I’m doing.”
“And?” I asked.
“And about you,” he said quietly.
The word landed heavy between us.
“I didn’t tell her anything,” he added quickly. “I just thought you should know.”
Something in me recoiled. Questions meant explanations. Explanations meant clarity. And clarity meant decisions.
“I don’t want to be discussed,” I said, sharper than intended.
Nelson stiffened. “I wasn’t discussing you. I was acknowledging you.”
“I didn’t agree to be acknowledged,” I shot back.
Silence.
“I thought we were being honest,” he said, hurt flickering across his face.
“We are,” I said. “That doesn’t mean I’m ready to be… anything.”
He exhaled slowly. “Elizabeth, I’m not asking you to meet my family.”
“But you’re moving faster than I can handle,” I admitted.
For a moment, he just looked at me.
Then he nodded. “Okay.”
Just okay.
“I’ll give you space,” he said. “I don’t want to push you into something you’re not ready for.”
The door closed gently behind him.
Too gently.
That night, his music didn’t play.
The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation over and over. I told myself I’d done the right thing—that protecting my boundaries mattered.
So why did it feel like I’d just pushed away something rare?
The next day, I avoided him. Took the stairs instead of the elevator. Stayed in longer than usual. When I finally stepped out to get groceries, I saw him across the parking lot—laughing with his sister, animated and alive in a way that made my chest ache.
He didn’t see me.
Or maybe he did and chose not to wave.
I stood there, bags in hand, realizing something painfully clear.
I wasn’t afraid of Nelson.
I was afraid of how much I cared.
And for the first time since this all began, the thought of losing him didn’t bring calm.
It brought regret.
- Writer
