The new apartment smelled like cardboard and lemon cleaner, the universal scent of starting over. Emily stood in the middle of it all—half-unpacked boxes, a dying plant resurrected from her old window, and one crooked picture frame she’d hung too high. It didn’t feel like home yet, but it felt like something waiting to become one.

Ryan had left an hour ago after insisting on fixing her light fixtures “for safety reasons,” which, translated, meant “for his sanity.” She’d teased him about it, but truthfully, she liked that he couldn’t help himself. He was always fixing things—not just the physical ones, but the quiet, invisible cracks that people pretended weren’t there.

She sat on the floor, cross-legged, sipping the last of the takeout coffee he’d brought. The city outside her window blinked like it was checking in. For once, she didn’t feel lonely. Just… still.

Ryan, meanwhile, was back in his apartment, staring at a ceiling that suddenly seemed too quiet. Pascal the cat was curled at his feet, judging him with expert indifference.

He kept thinking about her new place—the way she’d looked when she stood by the window, tired but bright, like she was daring life to throw the next punch. He admired that about her: how she bent without breaking. But tonight, admiration came with something heavier.

It scared him how much space she’d taken up in his head. He’d built a life on control, on knowing how things fit together. Emily didn’t fit—she collided. And yet, he didn’t want to fix it.

He lay back, staring at the ceiling fan, wondering when care had quietly turned into need.

The next few days blurred together. Work, text messages, missed calls. They were still fine—better than fine—but the rhythm had changed. Emily noticed first. Ryan wasn’t distant, not really. Just… quieter.

He still showed up, still smiled the same way, still asked about her day. But she could tell his mind was somewhere else. And the worst part? She didn’t know if she should ask.

She’d never been good at that—asking. She could read a room, survive chaos, handle drunks and heartbreakers, but when it came to her own fears, she froze. Maybe because admitting them made them real.

So instead, she told herself stories:  

He’s just tired. He’s just busy. He’s fine. We’re fine.  

The stories worked—until they didn’t.

It happened on a Thursday. She was closing the bar, mopping the floor when her phone buzzed.  

**Ryan:** “Can we talk?”  

The phrase that always arrived right before something broke.

Her stomach dipped. She texted back: “Sure. My place?”  

“Yeah. On my way.”

She almost dropped her phone.  

He never said *we need to talk*. He wasn’t a dramatic person. If he used those words, something mattered.

She changed out of her uniform, wiped her hands, and spent the next twenty minutes pretending to clean while her heart staged a rebellion.

When Ryan arrived, he looked like he’d walked through too many thoughts. He stood by the door a moment longer than necessary before saying, “Hey.”

“Hey.” She tried to sound casual, failed immediately.

He glanced around the apartment. “You hung that frame crooked on purpose, didn’t you?”

“It’s my artistic statement.”

He smiled, a small one, but it didn’t reach his eyes.  

That was when she knew. Whatever this was—it wasn’t small.

He sat down, rubbed his hands together. “I’ve been offered something.”

Her chest tightened. “Something like…?”

“A position. In Seattle.”

The word dropped like a coin in an empty room.

He continued, careful, measured. “It’s a big opportunity. Short-term contract, maybe six months. It could turn permanent.”

Six months. The same number of months they’d known each other.

“Oh,” she said, trying to sound like oxygen wasn’t leaving the room. “That’s—good. Right? Congratulations.”

He looked at her then, really looked. “That’s not what you mean.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She didn’t trust what would come out.

He sighed. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Then decide,” she said quickly, sharper than she intended. “You should go if it’s good for you.”

“Emily—”

“I’m serious,” she said, forcing a laugh. “You’d be stupid not to.”

He frowned. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” She lied. “I’m happy for you.”

He sat back, studying her. The silence between them grew thick, uncomfortable. The kind of quiet filled with all the words they were too scared to say out loud.

Finally, he nodded. “Okay.”

He stood, hesitated at the door. “I don’t want this to change things.”

“It won’t,” she said automatically. Another lie.

He gave her one last look—the kind that says *I hope you’re right* when both people know you’re not—and left.

When the door closed, the apartment felt bigger. And emptier.

For the next few days, she moved through life like someone underwater.  

Work. Smile. Pretend. Repeat.

Jess noticed immediately. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You just lied faster than usual.”

“I’m fine, Jess.”

“Right. And I’m dating Ryan Gosling.”

Emily forced a laugh. But that night, after Jess left, she sat on her couch staring at the half-unpacked boxes and wondered if she’d made a mistake.

She wanted to be proud of her own independence, the version of herself that didn’t beg anyone to stay. But pride felt hollow when the apartment echoed back nothing but silence.

Ryan didn’t call for three days. Then, on the fourth night, her phone lit up.

**Ryan:** “Still awake?”  

**Emily:** “Barely.”  

**Ryan:** “Can I come by?”  

Her first instinct was to say no. To protect whatever was left of her composure. But then she thought about that crooked frame, about how everything in her life leaned a little, and maybe that was okay.

“Yeah,” she typed back. “Door’s open.”

He showed up ten minutes later, hair messy, eyes tired. He didn’t speak at first, just stood there holding something—a photo. The one he’d taken of her on the rooftop.

“I don’t want to leave,” he said quietly. “But I don’t know how to stay.”

She stared at the picture, then at him. Words crowded her throat, none of them enough.

So she stepped closer, close enough to feel his breath, close enough to see the uncertainty in his eyes that mirrored her own.

“You’re allowed to want things,” she said. “Even if they pull you away.”

“I just don’t want to lose this.”

“Then don’t.”

He laughed softly, the sound almost breaking. “It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

They stood there, both knowing this was the moment that would decide what kind of story they were. Neither spoke again. The silence stretched—not empty this time, but full, fragile, and alive.

When he finally left, she didn’t cry. She just sat on the floor, photo in her lap, city humming outside.

Somewhere between wanting him to stay and knowing he couldn’t, she realized love wasn’t about fixing or holding—it was about the space in between. The part where you learn to breathe without losing the rhythm you built together.

It hurt. But it was honest.  

And maybe, she thought, honesty was its own kind of love.