Chapter 3 THE THING ABOUT DISTANCE

"We told ourselves we were careful. But feelings don't take notes."

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It started with texts.

Not long messages. Nothing overt. Just... check-ins.

"Thanks for the quiet space this morning. You're easier to talk to than most."

"Hey, did Daniel get those documents from legal? He hasn't replied."

"Ran into your sister at the bookstore today-she's got your laugh."

They came randomly, mostly after sunset. Not every night, but enough to start counting. Enough to start expecting.

And I always replied.

Sometimes quickly, sometimes after a pause I told myself was strategic, but never not at all. Because the truth was, I was thinking about her too. More than I should have been. More than was safe.

But we hadn't done anything wrong. Not yet.

I kept reminding myself of that.

That evening, the office was half-empty when Daniel asked me to run over a few documents to his place. He'd left early for an emergency Zoom call, and the files-physical ones, because some deals still needed wet signatures, were still on his desk.

I almost asked if I could email them instead. But I didn't. Because the request didn't feel strange. Until it did.

His apartment, their apartment, was in the Wessex, a tower that didn't believe in humility. The lobby had marble floors and a doorman who nodded like he'd memorized the life stories of every resident. I gave my name. He made a call. Then he smiled and waved me toward the elevator.

"Mrs. Hartman's expecting you."

My heart did something strange when he said that.

She opened the door before I could knock.

"Elijah," she said, her tone light but unmistakably warm. "Right on time."

She was barefoot, wearing a soft grey sweater and jeans. Her hair was down, slightly damp, like she'd just stepped out of the shower and hadn't cared enough to dry it fully.

I told myself not to look too closely.

"Got the files," I said, holding them up like evidence. "Daniel said he needed these tonight."

She reached for them, brushing my hand lightly. "He's still on a call. Hasn't moved from his study in hours."

I nodded, unsure whether I was supposed to step inside or just leave the envelope and go.

She made the choice for me.

"Come in. You've earned a glass of wine at the very least."

"I shouldn't-"

"Elijah," she said, her voice firmer but still amused, "You work longer hours than most surgeons. Take the wine."

I stepped inside.

Their home was exactly what I expected-sleek, minimal, expensive. Art that meant something to someone. Vases too tall to be practical. Furniture you didn't sink into; you perched on it.

Except the kitchen.

The kitchen looked lived-in. A half-eaten baguette sat on a wooden board. Two mismatched mugs by the sink. A pair of ballet flats kicked off beside the barstool. It was the only room that felt like someone exhaled there.

She poured two glasses of a rich red wine and handed me one.

"Cabernet," she said. "From Napa. One of the few things Daniel and I agree on."

"Wine?"

"No," she said. "Napa. It's the one vacation we took where we didn't argue."

I sipped quietly.

She leaned against the counter. "He said you've been a godsend. That the London account wouldn't have landed without you."

"That's generous," I said. "He was in the room."

"He's in every room," she said. "But not always present."

The comment hung in the air.

I tried to laugh it off. "Well, I do what I can."

She looked at me over the rim of her glass. "You do more than that."

A pause. I didn't know where this was going. Or maybe I did. And that was the problem.

"You remember what you told me in the office? About how everyone needs someone to pull them back to who they are?"

I nodded slowly.

She walked to the kitchen window. "Daniel used to do that for me. Back when we were nobodies. When we shared a two-bedroom and took turns pretending our dreams weren't eating us alive."

I stayed quiet.

"He used to write me notes," she said, smiling faintly. "Folded scraps of paper in my coat pocket. Said things like 'I see you.' 'Don't let the world dull your spark.' I kept them in a shoebox under my bed."

Her voice thinned slightly. "Now I find myself forgetting what his voice even sounds like when he's not pitching something."

She turned around, her eyes glossy but not teary. "I'm sorry. I don't usually talk this much. Especially not to people he works with."

"It's alright," I said. "You're allowed to talk."

She studied me for a second. "You're kind, Elijah."

I looked away. "I'm not trying to be."

"That's why it's real."

The room felt warmer suddenly. Not just from the wine. From proximity. From everything unspoken.

"Do you ever feel," she asked, "like you're walking a tightrope between who you are and who you're supposed to be?"

"All the time."

"What keeps you balanced?"

I thought about that.

"My sister," I said eventually. "She's sixteen. Brilliant. Unapologetically herself. She doesn't care about image or money. She reminds me what matters."

"She's lucky to have you."

"I'm the lucky one," I said. "She saved me more than once."

Something softened in her expression. A kind of wistfulness.

"I used to write poetry," she said suddenly.

That surprised me. "Really?"

She nodded. "In college. Before marketing plans and merger strategy became my vocabulary. I'd stay up all night writing. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to understand the shape of my feelings."

"And now?"

"Now I email executives about Q3 projections and wonder when my voice stopped sounding like my own."

There was a silence between us-comfortable, aching.

"You should write again," I said gently.

"Maybe," she replied. "Maybe not."

She stepped closer to refill her glass. I caught a faint scent of jasmine. She wasn't wearing perfume-just soap, clean and simple. The kind of detail you only notice when you're noticing too much.

"Elijah," she said softly, "Do you ever wonder what would've happened if your life had taken one different turn?"

"All the time."

"And do you ever meet someone and feel like... maybe that turn is still possible?"

I didn't answer right away.

Because I knew what she was asking.

And because I knew I felt it too.

"I think," I said finally, "some turns are only possible if both people are brave enough to take them."

She didn't respond.

But she didn't look away either.

Her phone buzzed on the counter.

Daniel.

She picked it up, read the message, and sighed.

"He wants you to know he'll review the papers tomorrow. Something came up."

"Of course," I said quickly, stepping back. "I should go."

She nodded, suddenly guarded again.

"Thanks for the wine."

"Thanks for listening," she said.

As I walked to the door, she followed. Not too close. Not too far.

When I reached for the handle, she said my name.

I turned.

For a second, neither of us moved.

Then she smiled-small, sad, full of restraint.

"Good night, Elijah."

"Good night, Lillian."

I stepped into the hallway, the door closing behind me with a soft click that felt heavier than it should have.

On the elevator ride down, I stared at the numbers.

What were we doing?

What were we not doing?

And why did it already feel like the space between those two things was shrinking?