I need to find the middle ground. Present but not pushing. Available but not demanding.
I need to stop disappearing.
I findmyself outside her door without meaning to go there.
The wood is solid oak, heavy enough to muffle sound. But I can sense her presence on the other side. That awareness of her that's developed over these weeks, tuned to her proximity like a compass finding north.
She's awake. Moving. I hear the soft pad of footsteps, the rustle of fabric.
My hand rises toward the door.
I imagine knocking. Imagine her opening it, her dark hairloose, her brown eyes wary but not closed. Imagine finding the words to explain what I feel.
I lower my hand.
She asked for space. And I will keep giving it to her, keep proving that her choices matter more to me than my wanting.
Even when my wanting feels like it might hollow me out entirely.
I walk to the training room instead.
It's empty at this hour. Good. I don't want witnesses for what I'm about to do.
I strip off my jacket and push my sleeves past my elbows. The first punching bag hangs from its chain, worn leather waiting to absorb whatever I need to pour into it.
I hit it.
The impact shudders up my arm, satisfying in a way nothing else has been. I hit it again. Again. Finding a rhythm, letting my body take over.
For a few minutes, there's nothing but the strike and the impact. No thoughts of her. No memory of holding my hand an inch from her face. No phantom sensation of almost touching her cheek.
The bag splits on the forty-seventh hit.
Sand pours onto the mats. I stand there, watching my knuckles heal.
It's not enough.
I move to the next bag.
Another briefing.
I make myself engage this time. Not just present the informationand leave, but stay. Be visible. Let her see that I'm here, that I'm not running, that I can exist in her orbit without pushing.
She asks a question about the northeastern sector coverage. Her voice is professional, steady, but I hear the slight hesitation underneath.
I answer her question. Meet her eyes for the first time since the conference room.
Two seconds. Maybe three. Long enough to see the wariness there. Long enough to see something else underneath it, something that might be curiosity or might be hope.
I look away first.
After the briefing, I linger. Not obviously. Just taking my time with the documents, giving her the opportunity to approach if she wants to.
She doesn't.
She gathers her things and leaves with the others, and I watch her go.
But she glanced back once before she reached the door.
