I didn't expect him to matter this much.
La Crox was supposed to be simple. A return. A pause. A place where I could breathe without the weight of everything I left behind pressing against my chest.
That was the plan.
Then I met him.
Lecklose wasn't loud about who he was. He didn't need to be. There was something steady in him, something quietly resilient.
The kind of strength you don't notice immediately, but once you do, you can't unsee it.
And somehow… he saw me too.
Not just the version I showed everyone else. Not just the composed, capable version who could organize programs and smile through long days.
He saw the parts I kept hidden.
And he didn't look away.
That was the beginning.
I didn't realize when it changed. When working side by side stopped feeling like routine and started feeling like something I looked forward to. When conversations lingered longer than they needed to. When silence between us stopped being empty and started meaning something.
It crept up on me.
Quietly.
The way feelings always do.
By the time I noticed it… it was already there.
And then I suggested the rooftop.
I told myself it was just dinner. Just a change of scenery. Somewhere calm, somewhere the city couldn't interrupt us.
But deep down, I think I knew.
The moment we sat across from each other, something shifted.
Not dramatically.
Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But I felt it.
In the way the air seemed to hold onto every word a little longer.
In the way his eyes stayed on me, not intense, not demanding… just present.
And somehow, that made it harder to breathe.
"I used to imagine this," I said, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass, just to keep them from trembling.
He didn't interrupt.
He never did.
"Not this exact moment, but… something like it. Sharing something simple with someone who sees me. Really sees me."
The words felt heavier once they were out.
Because they weren't just about the moment.
They were about him.
And I think he knew.
There was a pause after that.
Not awkward.
Not empty.
Just… full.
Like everything we hadn't said was sitting right there between us.
The city moved around us, distant and blurred, but none of it reached me the way he did in that moment.
I should have looked away.
Should have laughed it off, shifted the conversation, done something to pull us back into something safer.
But I didn't.
And neither did he.
His gaze softened, and something in me gave way.
Not all at once.
Just enough.
I don't remember deciding to move.
I don't remember thinking it through.
All I remember is the space between us… disappearing.
Slowly.
Like it had always been too thin to matter.
My breath caught, not from fear, but from the realization of how close we had become.
How easy it would be to cross that line.
How impossible it suddenly felt not to.
And then,we did.
It wasn't rushed.
It wasn't uncertain.
It was quiet.
Careful.
Like we both understood that this wasn't just a moment… it was a shift.
Something real.
Something that couldn't be taken back once it happened.
And that's what made it linger.
Not just the closeness.
But the meaning behind it.
When we pulled apart, it wasn't abrupt.
There was no panic.
No regret.
Just silence.
The kind that wraps around you and settles deep in your chest.
I smiled, though I wasn't sure if it was out of happiness or something else entirely.
"Guess we finally said it without words."
My voice barely rose above the night.
He let out a soft breath, something between a laugh and a release.
"Yeah," he said.
And in that moment, I knew.
This wasn't something I could pretend away.
This wasn't harmless anymore.
It wasn't just comfort or coincidence or timing.
It was real.
And real things come with consequences.
That's what stayed with me long after the night ended.
Not the moment itself.
But what it meant.
Because while he was stepping into something new…
I was already tied to something unfinished.
Promises I hadn't broken.
Truths I hadn't spoken.
A life that hadn't fully let me go.
And now I was standing in between it all.
Holding onto something I shouldn't have let myself feel.
Every time I look at him now, I see it.
The trust.
The quiet hope.
The way he lets himself believe in something again.
And it scares me.
Because I know something he doesn't.
Something that could take all of that away.
I tried to create distance.
Told myself it was the right thing to do.
But distance doesn't erase what's already there.
It only makes it louder in the silence.
And every time I pull away…
I feel it.
That shift.
That crack forming in something that once felt so easy.
I don't know how much longer I can keep this balance.
I don't know how much longer I can pretend everything is still under control.
But I do know one thing.
Soon…
I'm going to have to choose.