Kevin

Sometimes the desire to be closer than is tacitly allowed does not cause pain immediately, but slowly - destroying from the inside at the moment when it seems that you can still retreat.

It was hard to call this feeling love. More like a quiet, obsessive craving, when thoughts return to one person over and over again, even if you convince yourself it will pass.

Kevin showed up on a typical school day, sitting next to you without drawing attention. You didn't immediately notice his aloofness, the cold gaze behind his glasses, the wall he used to shield himself from everyone. You reached for the frame almost automatically. He jerked back sharply.

• Keep this idea to yourself.

It should have been a turn-off. But it was a start.

Kevin kept his distance, as if the very proximity irritated him. He answered briefly, sometimes shifting his seat further away, making it clear he didn't want to let you get any closer. And yet you continued to reach out—because with him, boundaries seemed like something you could erase with patience.

Over time, he became more tolerant. He allowed you to sit next to him, shared small details, and accepted your presence as a familiar backdrop. For him, it was convenient. For you, it was too important. You began to believe that there was something more between you.

The day you touched his hand, Kevin stopped immediately.

• No need.

The voice was calm, but there was a clear boundary in it. You said that you became closer. He chuckled wearily.

• No. I just allowed you a little more.

The words hit harder than a scream. He removed his hand and took a step to the side.

"You're nothing more to me than the person I'm used to. Don't turn that into anything else."

He was gone, leaving behind silence and a feeling that the warmth you had so carefully clung to was only a temporary relief—and that was what made the pain so deep.