The Distance Between Us
1223 Words
Ralisa
The rain didn’t just fall that night.
It attacked.
By the time I finished my last email, the windows of the building were completely blurred with water.
The city outside looked like it had been erased and redrawn in chaos.
I sighed.
Of course.
Of course today.
Everyone had already left early.
The reception area was almost empty.
Even the security guards were half-asleep behind their desk.
I checked my phone.
No Bolt.
Again.
“No, no, no…”
I refreshed it like it would magically change its mind.
Still nothing.
I leaned against the wall.
Tired.
Really tired.
“Don’t tell me you’re still here.”
That voice.
I turned slowly.
Darius.
Standing a few steps behind me.
Hair slightly damp from the humidity outside.
Hands in his pockets like he had all the time in the world.
I frowned immediately.
“You again.”
He smiled.
“I feel like that’s becoming your default greeting for me.”
“It’s accurate.”
He glanced toward the rain outside.
Then back at me.
“You’re not leaving yet?”
“No transport.”
A pause.
Then he nodded slowly.
Like he had expected that answer.
“You always have this problem?”
“What problem?”
“Getting home.”
I straightened.
“I don’t have a problem. I have… logistics.”
His lips twitched.
“That’s one way to describe it.”
I looked at him carefully.
“You’re not leaving either?”
“I was.”
“Was?”
He nodded toward the rain.
“It changed my plans.”
I sighed.
“Great. So now we’re both stuck.”
“That sounds dramatic.”
“It is dramatic. It’s raining like the sky is angry.”
He looked at the window.
“I’ve seen worse.”
“Congratulations.”
That made him laugh.
And I hated how easily he laughed around me.
Darius
She was tired.
I could see it immediately.
Not just physically.
Everything about her felt stretched thin.
Her posture.
Her voice.
Even the way she was standing against the wall like she needed it to hold her up.
And yet she was still here.
Still working.
Still refusing to stop.
“Where do you stay?” I asked casually.
She looked at me suspiciously.
“Why?”
“Just asking.”
“That’s how kidnappings start.”
I blinked.
Then laughed.
“I think you’ve been watching too many movies.”
“I think you’ve been ignoring crime statistics.”
Fair point.
But I pushed again.
“Seriously.”
She hesitated.
Then sighed.
“Far.”
“How far?”
Another pause.
Like she was debating whether to lie.
Then:
“Forty-five kilometers.”
I went quiet.
Not because I was shocked.
But because I was recalculating everything I thought I knew about her.
Forty-five kilometers.
Every day.
To come here.
To work late.
To leave late.
To repeat it again tomorrow.
“You do that every day?” I asked.
She shrugged.
“As if I have a choice.”
That sentence stayed with me longer than it should have.
Ralisa
He was quiet for a moment.
Longer than usual.
Then he said something strange.
“That’s not normal.”
I rolled my eyes.
“It is in real life.”
“No,” he said softly.
“It shouldn’t be.”
I frowned.
“Are you about to lecture me about transportation economics?”
He smiled slightly.
“No.”
“Then what?”
He looked at me properly this time.
Like he was actually seeing me.
Not just talking.
“I’m saying you shouldn’t have to travel that far just to survive your workday.”
Something in my chest tightened.
But I refused to show it.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly.
He didn’t argue.
Which annoyed me.
Because men usually argue when they think you’re wrong.
Instead, he simply said:
“Okay.”
That was worse.
Darius
She said she was fine.
But she wasn’t.
And I knew that kind of “fine.”
It’s the kind people say when they’ve stopped expecting better.
I looked outside again.
The rain was getting heavier.
“This won’t stop soon,” I said.
She sighed.
“I figured.”
A pause.
Then I made a decision I probably shouldn’t have made.
“Come.”
She looked at me sharply.
“What?”
“I’ll take you home.”
Immediately:
“No.”
I expected that.
“You don’t even know where I live,” she added.
“I know it’s forty-five kilometers away.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
She crossed her arms.
“The point is I don’t go home with strangers.”
I nodded.
Slowly.
Then said:
“You’ve known me for… what? Three elevator conversations?”
“Exactly.”
“And I returned your ID.”
“That doesn’t build trust.”
“It should.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
A beat.
Then I reached into my pocket.
And held out my ID again.
She stared at it.
Then at me.
“You’re using that again?”
“It worked last time.”
She groaned.
Ralisa
He was impossible.
Completely impossible.
Who carries their ID like emotional leverage?
I rubbed my forehead.
“You’re persistent.”
“I prefer consistent.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is in my case.”
I stared at him.
Rain continued outside.
No transport.
No backup plan.
No escape from this conversation.
I exhaled.
“Fine,” I said finally.
“But just drop me somewhere close to a stage where I can get transport.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“You’re negotiating with me now?”
“No. I’m surviving.”
That made him smile again.
“Fair enough.”
Darius
She finally agreed.
Not fully.
Not comfortably.
But enough.
As we walked to the car, I noticed something.
She kept glancing at the rain like it was personally insulting her.
“You don’t like rain?” I asked.
“I don’t like inconvenience.”
“That’s a very honest answer.”
“I’m a very honest person.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Because I didn’t think that was entirely true.
She was honest in words.
But not in emotions.
Not yet.
Ralisa
The car was warm.
Quiet.
Safe.
I hated how safe it felt.
Because safe was dangerous.
Safe made people stay.
And I wasn’t trying to let anyone stay.
Not anymore.
As we drove, he didn’t talk much.
Which I appreciated.
Until he said:
“So forty-five kilometers… that’s expensive.”
I sighed.
“It is.”
“And you still do it.”
“I told you. I work.”
He glanced at me briefly.
“That’s not what I meant.”
I looked out the window.
“Then don’t mean things you don’t say clearly.”
He nodded slightly.
“Noted.”
Silence again.
Then, softer:
“You must be exhausted.”
That sentence hit differently.
Because it wasn’t judgment.
It wasn’t pity.
It was observation.
So I didn’t answer.
But he didn’t push.
Just kept driving.
And for the first time in a long time…
I felt like someone had noticed something I usually hid very well.
And I didn’t know if I liked that.
- Writer
