The city blurs past my window in gold and glass, reflections bending across the windshield like memories I don’t want to straighten out. I rest my head against the leather seat and press my thumb against my temple, as if I can physically hold back the thoughts trying to break through.

You think I don’t care.

That’s easier.

It’s easier for you to believe I’m arrogant… distracted… emotionally unavailable. Easier than knowing that every time you get close, something inside me locks the door from the inside.

I learned that young.

When you’re eight years old and you watch the world shatter in front of you, love stops feeling safe. It starts feeling like something that can be taken. Something that can bleed out in your hands.

So when you ask questions; real ones, the kind that dig past charm and into marrow… I retreat.

Not because I don’t feel.

Because I feel too much.

You want consistency. Presence. Assurance.

I want control.

Ignoring you gives me that illusion. If I step back first, I can’t be blindsided. If I don’t respond, I don’t have to explain why your voice softens something in me I’ve spent years hardening.

I saw the way you looked at me last time. Not infatuated.

Concerned.

That’s more dangerous.

Concern means you're trying to understand me. And if you understand me, you’ll see the cracks. The anger I pretend isn’t there. The guilt I carry like a shadow. The way I sometimes push just to see if you’ll stay.

The car stops outside my office building.

I adjust my tie. Straighten my face. Step out.

And there you were.

Sitting in the lobby.

Waiting.

For a split second, my chest tightens, not annoyance. Not inconvenience.

Fear.

My first instinct is to walk past her. Keep it professional. Keep it distant. If I treat her like any other visitor, maybe the ground won’t shift beneath my feet.

So I school my expression into something neutral. Controlled. Almost cold.

“Did you have an appointment?” I hear myself ask, as if I don’t know exactly why you're here.

It’s deliberate.

Distance disguised as professionalism.

If I keep this in the lobby, under fluorescent lights and security cameras, maybe it won’t turn into something personal. Something real.

Because the moment I let it become real… I’ll have to choose.

And I’m not sure I’m brave enough for that.