Dan

You were sitting in the kitchen when he came up behind you and put his arm around your shoulders. He didn't say a word—he just stood there and watched you stir your tea.

“We need to talk,” he said finally.

You turned around. He looked serious, but not tense.

"I rented an apartment," he said. "Not far from the university. Two rooms, decent neighborhood. I want us to live together."

He didn't press or coax, he simply looked at you, waiting for an answer. You gazed at his face for a moment, then looked away.

“I’ll think about it,” you said, trying to keep your voice even.

He nodded without further ado and left the room.

And you remained sitting, clutching your mug, feeling something viscous welling up inside you. You knew you loved him—that was enough to say "yes." But something inside was holding you back. Not your parents, not your control—no. You were afraid that living together would erase the ease you shared. That you would suddenly see each other without filters, without embellishment, and it would destroy what you had spent three years building. That routine and daily life would kill the romance. That you wouldn't be able to handle this intimacy. You weren't afraid of him, but of yourself in this relationship. And that made it even scarier. Because he wasn't offering you an apartment—he was offering you a step forward. And you weren't sure you were ready for it.