The days after the coffee meeting blurred into a strange rhythm of avoidance and quiet longing. I stayed at Sofia’s, burying myself in textbooks and pretending the ache in my chest was just exam stress. Sofia, bless her, tried to keep things light with terrible reality TV marathons and burnt toast attempts she called “gourmet breakfast.” But even she could see I was struggling.
“You know,” she said one afternoon while we were on the couch, “for someone who asked for space, you check your phone like it owes you money.”
I sighed and set the device down. “Habit.”
“Uh-huh.” She raised an eyebrow. “And the fact that Damien hasn’t blown up your phone with messages or flowers is driving you crazier than if he had.”
She wasn’t wrong. The silence from him felt… intentional. Respectful. Which on
