I can’t keep doing this.

Stealing glances from a distance, pretending not to hear when he calls, holding myself back from responding like I normally would.

This isn’t me.

This isn’t us.

But if I don’t pull away, I don’t know how far I’ll fall.

So I play it safe.

---

A small smile. Short replies. Talking only when necessary. If he gets too close, I redirect. If he looks for me, I act like I don’t notice.

I thought if I did this long enough, maybe it would start to feel normal. Maybe these feelings would fade on their own.

They don’t.

I realize it when he starts getting frustrated—when he tries harder to talk to me, to get a reaction. When he grabs my arm in the motorhome like it’s the only way to make me listen.

“Lando.”

I don’t look at him. If I do, the wall I’ve built might crack.

“What?” I keep my voice even, distant.

“What’s wrong with you?”

That’s the question I’ve been avoiding. Because if I answer, I don’t trust myself to lie.

I know he’s waiting, but I still can’t say anything. In the end, I pull my arm away, putting space between us.

“Nothing.”