Boundaries
Chapter 4 – Boundaries
On the fifth day, Isabelle finally ate half a bowl of porridge.
Crystal celebrated like Isabelle had just won an award.
“YES,” she yelled, hands up. “My girl is BACK.”
Isabelle blinked, spoon hovering. “I’m not back.”
“You are half-back,” Crystal corrected. “Half-back is still back.”
Ivan, seated on the floor with his back against Isabelle’s bed, muttered, “This is why you annoy people.”
Crystal kicked his shoe lightly. “This is why you’re single.”
Ivan sighed. “I’m not single.”
“Emotionally you are,” Crystal said without missing a beat.
Isabelle almost laughed.
Almost.
The sound got stuck somewhere between her chest and her throat.
Aleem, sitting in the chair by the door like he always did now, watched her with that quiet attentiveness that made Isabelle feel seen without being stared at.
When Isabelle set the spoon down, her appetite suddenly gone again, Aleem didn’t say anything.
He simply stood.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go downstairs for a bit. Air.”
Crystal perked up. “Park!”
Ivan groaned. “Not park again.”
Aleem’s eyes flicked to Ivan. “Not park. Just downstairs.”
Ivan muttered, “Same thing.”
Crystal grinned. “Stop complaining. Come.”
They moved like a small unit.
Isabelle in the middle.
Always in the middle.
Downstairs, the void deck was quiet.
A few elderly residents sat at stone tables playing chess. A kid zoomed past on a scooter, his laughter echoing off the pillars.
Isabelle sat on a bench, hands folded in her lap.
The world felt… slightly less sharp today.
Not softer.
But less jagged.
Crystal chatted with the aunties for no reason, as if she was collecting side quests.
Ivan stood nearby, scrolling through his phone with the air of someone doing security duty.
Aleem sat beside Isabelle–but not too close.
That distance again.
The perfect amount.
It was then Isabelle realized something.
Aleem always chose the perfect amount.
Not overwhelming.
Not abandoning.
Always calibrated.
Like he was measuring how much presence she could tolerate.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“Why are you doing this?” she blurted.
Aleem’s gaze turned to her.
His expression didn’t change, but his attention sharpened.
“Doing what?”
“All this,” Isabelle said, voice trembling. “Checking in. Staying. Making sure I eat. Breathing. The… dot thing.”
The words came out sharper than she intended.
She wasn’t accusing.
She was scared.
Because care like this felt like a cliff.
What if she leaned too much?
What if she needed him too much?
What if he left too?
Aleem’s eyes held hers.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said, simply, “Because you matter.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
“That’s–” her voice cracked. “That’s dangerous.”
Aleem blinked. “Dangerous?”
Isabelle swallowed.
“You’re making me feel… safe,” she whispered, as if saying it out loud would break it. “And then what? What if I get used to it? What if I can’t–”
Her breath hitched.
She wasn’t talking about him specifically.
She was talking about the universe.
She was talking about loss.
Aleem watched her for a moment.
Then he nodded once.
“Okay,” he said softly. “We talk about that.”
Isabelle stared.
Aleem’s voice was calm, but there was steel under it.
“Belle, listen. I’m not doing this to make you dependent.”
Isabelle’s eyes stung.
Aleem continued.
“I’m doing this so you survive the worst part. Then… you stand again.”
His words landed carefully.
Not romantic.
Not possessive.
A plan.
Isabelle swallowed hard.
“But what if I–”
Aleem cut in gently.
“No.”
The firmness startled her.
Aleem’s gaze stayed steady.
“No what if. You’re not a burden. But you’re also not going to mistake this season for… something else.”
Isabelle’s brows knit. “Something else?”
Aleem exhaled, slow.
He turned his gaze to the chess-playing uncle across the void deck, as if choosing the safest direction to speak.
“Belle,” he said, voice lower. “You’re hurting. You just lost something huge. When you’re in pain, the mind looks for anything to hold onto.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Aleem continued, carefully.
“If I’m here, I’m here as your friend. As ABIX. Not as–”
He stopped.
Not because he was shy.
Because the word mattered.
“Not as a replacement,” he said finally.
The sentence fell between them.
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
She felt shame rise.
But Aleem’s voice softened immediately.
“I’m not saying you’re doing that,” he added. “I’m saying… I won’t let us cross lines that will confuse you later.”
Isabelle stared at her hands.
So that was it.
Boundaries.
Even now.
Especially now.
A strange mix of emotions swelled inside her.
Embarrassment.
Relief.
And something else–
A respect so heavy it hurt.
Aleem wasn’t taking.
He was guarding.
Isabelle whispered, “You really think I would…?”
Aleem turned back to her.
His eyes were kind.
“I think grief makes people do strange things,” he said. “And I don’t want you to wake up months later and feel like you used someone to stop the pain. I don’t want you to hate yourself for surviving.”
Isabelle’s throat closed.
Her eyes blurred.
She looked away quickly.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
Aleem’s brows drew together again.
“Stop apologizing,” he said, softer now. “You’re allowed to feel.”
Isabelle’s tears finally fell.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just quiet grief leaking out.
Aleem didn’t touch her.
He didn’t pull her into a hug.
He stayed where he was.
And somehow, that restraint felt like the gentlest kind of care.
That night, ABIX gathered again.
Crystal made instant noodles because she insisted cooking was “an act of love” even if the love came in a cup.
Ivan complained about the sodium.
Crystal told him to shut up.
Isabelle sat at the small dining table, staring at the noodles.
She forced herself to eat.
Two mouthfuls.
Then three.
Crystal clapped softly like a proud coach.
Isabelle shook her head weakly. “Don’t.”
“It’s progress,” Crystal insisted.
Ivan nodded. “It is. Your body needs fuel.”
Aleem didn’t comment.
He simply watched Isabelle with quiet approval.
Later, when Crystal went to the bathroom and Ivan took a call outside, Isabelle found herself alone with Aleem in the living room.
The air between them held the conversation from earlier–unfinished.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Aleem,” she said.
He looked up.
Isabelle’s voice was small. “You said you don’t want us to cross lines.”
Aleem nodded.
“So… what are the lines?”
The question surprised even Isabelle.
Why did she want to know?
Maybe because boundaries made her feel safer.
Maybe because the absence of boundaries was what had destroyed her.
Aleem leaned back slightly, thinking.
Then he said, very plainly,
“No dating right now.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Aleem continued, tone gentle but firm.
“No flirting. No ‘maybe’ language. No emotional shortcuts.”
He looked at her.
“And you don’t call me when you want him.”
Isabelle froze.
The words hit like a slap.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they were true.
Isabelle’s eyes stung.
Aleem’s voice softened immediately.
“I know you miss him. That’s normal. If you call me because you’re lonely, okay. If you call me because you’re scared, okay. But if you call me because you’re trying to replace him with me…”
He paused.
His gaze held hers.
“I will stop you.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She whispered, “You really would?”
Aleem nodded once.
“Yes.”
Isabelle stared at him.
And then, unexpectedly, she felt something like gratitude.
Because this–
this was the kind of man who wouldn’t take advantage.
The kind of man who would protect her dignity even if it cost him comfort.
Isabelle’s voice trembled. “Okay.”
Aleem’s posture eased slightly, as if he’d been holding his breath.
“Okay,” he repeated.
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Isabelle whispered, almost ashamed,
“I’m scared you’ll leave too.”
The room went still.
Aleem’s eyes softened.
He didn’t dismiss it.
He didn’t promise forever.
He only said the truth he could keep.
“I’m here now,” he said.
Isabelle’s breath shook.
“Now,” she repeated.
Aleem nodded.
“Now,” he said again. “And tomorrow, if you want. And the day after, if you still need it.”
Isabelle’s eyes blurred.
She nodded.
It wasn’t forever.
But it was real.
And for the first time since her breakup, Isabelle understood something:
Boundaries weren’t rejection.
They were proof of respect.
And respect–
respect was the first brick of safety.
She didn’t know what she would build from it.
But for tonight,
it was enough to stand on.