The Almost

The next morning was soft.

I woke before my alarm, the apartment still quiet, the windows pale with early light. I moved through the kitchen on instinct, boiling water, cracking eggs, slicing spring onions into careful curls.

She joined me a little later, her hair pulled up, eyes still sleepy. She said nothing at first, just padded over to the table and sat. I placed a bowl in front of her — warm broth, rice, a soft-boiled egg floating in the center.

She looked at it, then up at me.

“Didn’t sleep?”

“Not really.”

She nodded. “Same.”

We ate in silence, but it wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Careful.

At one point, I looked up and found her already watching me. She didn’t look away.

—

Later that afternoon, we ended up reorganizing the bookshelf together.

It started with one title out of place, then turned into a full-on sorting session — pulling out paperbacks, laughing at old underlines, rediscovering a half-crushed envelope behind the cookbooks.

She held up a photo that had slipped out from between the pages. “You with glasses and braces?”

I grabbed it before she could squint. “Illegal to possess, actually.”

She laughed, full and light. The kind that filled the room without trying.

I wasn’t sure when I stopped organizing and just started watching her.

Not in a way that demanded anything. Just… watching. Like I didn’t want to miss how the light moved across her face when she smiled, or how she tugged at her sleeves when she was focused.

—

After dinner, we sat on the couch again. The kettle had just finished boiling, the tea was steeping on the table.

There was a song playing softly from her phone. Something acoustic, gentle. I couldn’t make out the lyrics — just the hum of something wistful.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said suddenly.

She turned slightly.

“If things were different… do you ever think about it?”

A pause.

“Different how?”

“About… us.”

She looked at me, eyes unreadable. Not dismissive. Just still.

“I think about it,” she said, eventually. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “But I also think about everything that could go wrong.”

Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve — a habit I’d started to notice when she was nervous. I watched her, wanting to say something to ease that weight, to promise something I wasn’t sure I could promise.

“But don’t you ever get tired?” I asked.

“Of what?”

“Of pretending we don’t notice what’s happening.”

Her hand stilled.

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared into her tea, now cooling in her lap.

“Every day,” she said, softly.

We sat with that. Not touching. Not looking. Just breathing the same quiet space.

The tea went cold.

—

Later that night, I passed her room and saw her standing by the window, arms folded.

I didn’t say anything. Just walked over, quietly, and stood beside her.

Down below, the streetlights flickered over parked cars. Someone’s dog barked in the distance. The whole world felt paused.

“Do you ever miss home?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” I said. “But lately, here doesn’t feel so foreign.”

She turned to me. Her face was closer than I’d expected.

We didn’t speak.

I stepped in just slightly. Just enough that I could feel the warmth of her breath.

She didn’t move.

I leaned in — slow, uncertain — until her eyes fluttered shut.

And then I stopped.

“Goodnight,” I whispered.

She opened her eyes slowly. There was no disappointment in them.

Just understanding.

“Goodnight,” she said.

I left her standing there, framed in moonlight.

And in my room, I lay awake for a long time, wondering what might’ve happened if I hadn’t pulled away.

It was almost something.

But almost was enough — for now.