The Distance We Pretend Is Safety
1343 Words
Chapter 6: The Distance We Pretend Is Safety
I decided, the next morning, that distance would be my discipline.
It sounds noble when I frame it that way, distance as self-respect, distance as clarity, but really it’s a shield. A way to stop flinching every time I hear my name spoken in that voice. A way to stop wanting what keeps stepping just out of reach.
I arrive early and leave on time. I keep my eyes on my screen during meetings. I speak when necessary, not when tempted. I tell myself that professionalism is not the absence of feeling, just the mastery of it.
By noon, I was exhausted.
Adrian notices immediately.
He always does.
It’s a strange thing, to be seen so clearly by someone who refuses to truly look at you. To feel the weight of his awareness without the comfort of his acknowledgment.
During the weekly project briefing, he didn’t interrupt me once. Not to challenge, not to refine, not even to affirm. It’s not neglect; it’s restraint. I recognize it because it mirrors my own.
When the meeting ends, people file out in clusters of conversation and laughter. I pack my notebook deliberately, slow enough to ensure he won’t try to catch me.
He doesn’t.
That should feel like relief.
Instead, it feels like a hollow victory.
By Thursday, the office began to notice.
“You’ve been quiet,” Lina says as we stand by the coffee machine. “Everything okay?”
“Just focused,” I reply.
She raises an eyebrow. “At work?”
“Isn’t that what we’re here for?”
She smiles, unconvinced, but lets it go.
Across the room, I sense him before I see him. Adrian stands near the glass wall of his office, phone pressed to his ear, posture rigid. His gaze flicks at me for half a second before he looks away again.
Good, I think. Let it stay that way.
But distance has a way of echoing.
That afternoon, an external consultant joins our floor, Evan Brooks. He’s sharp, confident, easy in a way that doesn’t demand effort. He asks thoughtful questions, laughs easily, and listens when I speak.
It’s harmless. Professional.
Still, I feel Adrian’s attention sharpen across the room like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.
Evan leans against my desk. “You’re the one who built the forecasting model, right?”
“I led it, yes.”
“Impressive work,” he says. “I’d love to pick your brain over lunch tomorrow if you’re free.”
I hesitate, not because I don’t want to, but because I know.
“Sure,” I say finally. “That’d be fine.”
The word fine tastes like defiance.
I don’t look at Adrian, but I don’t need to. I feel the shift in the air. The tightening. The control straining against something raw and uncooperative.
That evening, an email arrives in my inbox.
Subject: Data Validation Review
From: Adrian Hale
> Please come by my office at 6:30 p.m. We need to review discrepancies before tomorrow’s call.
I stare at the screen for a long moment.
So much for distance.
---
His office feels different after hours. Quieter. Less armored. The city hums faintly beyond the windows, lights flickering like restless thoughts.
Adrian stands behind his desk when I enter, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened again. He looks tired. Not the polished kind of tired, something deeper.
“You wanted to see me,” I say.
“Yes.” He gestures toward the chair across from him. “Please.”
I sit, crossing my legs carefully, anchoring myself in posture and purpose.
He opens a file but doesn’t look at it. His fingers rest on the edge of the desk instead, knuckles whitening slightly.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says.
The directness catches me off guard.
“I’ve been working,” I reply.
“So have I.”
Silence stretches.
“If I’ve done something wrong professionally,” I add, “I’d appreciate knowing.”
He exhales slowly. “You haven’t.”
“Then what is this about?”
His eyes lift towards mine. There’s no calculation in them now. Just conflict.
“You were asked to lunch,” he says.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Evan Brooks,” he continues. “You accepted.”
I let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Is that why I’m here? To explain my lunch plans?”
His jaw tightens. “No.”
“Then don’t bring it up like it matters,” I say quietly. “Because you’ve been very clear about what does and doesn’t.”
“That was unprofessional of me,” he admits.
“Yes,” I say. “It was.”
He flinches, not dramatically, but enough to tell me the truth landed.
“I don’t have the right to question your personal choices,” he continues. “I know that.”
“Then don’t.”
“I’m trying not to,” he says. “But you’re making it difficult.”
My heart stumbles. “By… living?”
“By pulling away,” he says. “By acting like I don’t exist.”
I lean back in my chair. “You asked me to pretend the night we met didn’t happen. You asked for boundaries. This is what they look like.”
His voice drops. “This feels like punishment.”
“No,” I reply. “This feels like survival.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
“I meant what I said,” he says finally. “You deserve someone unafraid.”
“And you?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought,” I say softly, standing. “If there’s nothing work-related, I should go.”
He looks like he wants to stop me.
He doesn’t.
---
Adrian
After she leaves, the office feels impossibly empty.
I sit at my desk long after the city lights blur, replaying the way she looked at me, composed, distant, hurt beneath restraint. I’ve negotiated billion-dollar deals with less tension than the silence she left behind.
This was never supposed to matter.
That night, the bar, the rain, the anonymity, it was meant to be a fracture in routine. A moment without consequence. I hadn’t planned to see her again, hadn’t planned to want her again.
And yet.
Watching her talk to Evan earlier, watching the ease in her smile, the way she leaned in without hesitation, it had twisted something sharp and ugly inside me.
Jealousy.
I hate it. Hate what it reveals.
Control has always been my refuge. Order. Distance. Clear lines. But Amara exists in the space between lines, and I am losing the ability to pretend otherwise.
I tell myself that wanting her is selfish.
I tell myself that letting her go is necessary.
Neither thought brings relief.
---
Amara
Lunch with Evan is easy.
That’s the problem.
We talk about work, about cities we’ve lived in, about books and late nights and bad coffee. He listens without weighing his words, without holding himself back.
I laughed more than I expected to.
And still, when he asks if I want dessert, my mind flickers, not to sweetness, but to restraint. To a man who looks at me like wanting is a liability.
“I should get back,” I say apologetically.
“Another time,” Evan replies with a smile that carries no pressure.
I appreciate that more than I can explain.
Back at my desk, an alert pings.
New message from Adrian Hale.
I hesitate before opening it.
> Thank you for your work on the validation review. The client was impressed.
That’s it.
No apology. No clarification. No bridge.
I stare at the screen until the words blur.
That evening, as I pack my things, I realize something unsettling.
Distance doesn’t hurt because it separates us.
It hurts because part of me still hopes he’ll cross it.
And that hope, that quiet, stubborn hope, is the most dangerous thing of all.
- Writer
