Chapter 9: The Distance That Learned Our Names
Distance has a sound.
I learned that during the weeks that followed. It sounded like doors closing softly instead of slamming. Like conversations that stayed polite and shallow. Like footsteps that slowed when they passed my room, then continued without stopping.
Lucien became careful in a way that hurt more than anger ever could.
He stopped picking me up from school every day. Not abruptly, not cruelly, but gradually, like someone easing away from a fire they were afraid would burn them if they stayed too close. Sometimes the car was there. Sometimes it wasn't. He always texted first. Always polite. Always distant.
I told myself it was for the best.
I lied.
At school, life went on without caring that my world had cracked open. Exams came and went. Teachers talked about the future like it was a simple thing, like people didn't carry invisible weights on their chests every day.
I started staying later after classes, joining clubs I didn't care about just to avoid going home too early. Home had become a place filled with pauses and unsaid things, and I didn't trust myself not to fill the silence with something I couldn't take back.
Lucien noticed anyway.
"You've been coming home late," he said one evening, standing in the kitchen as I dropped my bag by the door.
"I told you," I replied lightly. "Clubs."
"You don't like clubs."
"I'm learning."
He studied me, eyes sharp and thoughtful. "You're avoiding something."
I shrugged. "Maybe I'm just busy."
"Busy doesn't look like this," he said quietly.
I looked away. "Don't analyze me."
"I'm not," he replied. "I'm concerned."
That word again. Concern. It wrapped around my heart and squeezed.
"I'm fine," I said firmly. "You wanted boundaries. This is what they look like."
Something flickered in his eyes, quick and painful. "Is that what you think this is?"
"Yes," I said, even though my voice betrayed me.
That night, I cried again, angry at myself for still wanting comfort from the very person I was trying to stay away from.
The next week brought a school event I couldn't escape.
Parent–teacher night.
I stared at the notice on the fridge like it was a threat. My mother was still in recovery, too weak to attend. Normally, I would have gone alone, made excuses, smiled politely.
But I wasn't alone anymore.
"You don't have to come," I told Lucien when he found the paper.
"I do," he said simply.
"You really don't."
"I'm your husband," he replied, then paused, softening his tone. "And I promised to show up."
The words settled heavily between us.
That evening, Lucien stood beside me in the school hallway, dressed neatly, calm as ever. Teachers looked at him with curiosity, with respect. With questions they didn't ask out loud.
"This is Mr. Blackwood," my homeroom teacher said, surprised. "You're… very young."
Lucien smiled politely. "Life moves fast sometimes."
I glanced at him, wondering if he knew how much that applied to us.
We moved from classroom to classroom, listening to my teachers talk about grades and potential and concerns. Lucien listened closely, asked thoughtful questions, defended me when one teacher implied I was distracted.
"She's carrying more responsibility than most people her age," he said evenly. "That deserves understanding."
I swallowed hard, blinking back emotion.
Afterward, as we walked out into the cool night air, I finally spoke. "You didn't have to do that."
"Yes," he replied, "I did."
We stood there under the streetlights, close but not touching.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He nodded. "You don't need to thank me."
On the drive home, the silence was different. Softer. Less sharp around the edges.
"I forgot how smart you are," Lucien said suddenly.
I scoffed. "You never knew."
"I knew," he corrected. "I just didn't say it enough."
My heart betrayed me with a small, hopeful flutter.
That hope didn't last.
A few days later, I overheard a phone call I wasn't meant to hear.
Lucien was in his office, voice low, controlled. I stopped in the hallway when I heard my name.
"She's getting attached," he said. "More than I planned."
I pressed my hand to the wall, breath shallow.
"No," he continued. "I'm not backing out of the contract. I'm saying the longer this goes on, the harder it will be for her."
A pause.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I care. That's the problem."
My chest tightened painfully.
When he came out of the office later, he found me sitting on the couch, staring at nothing.
"How long were you there?" he asked carefully.
"Long enough," I replied.
Silence fell like a heavy curtain.
"I didn't mean for you to hear that," he said.
"I know," I said softly. "You never do."
Lucien looked like he wanted to say something else. Something important. Instead, he said, "We should be careful."
The words felt like a blade twisting slowly.
"I'm tired of being careful," I admitted. "It feels like I'm shrinking."
"I'm trying to protect you," he said again.
"From what?" I asked bitterly. "From you? Or from yourself?"
He flinched.
"I don't know how to do this without hurting you," he said quietly.
"That doesn't mean you get to decide for me," I replied, standing up. "I didn't sign away my feelings with that contract."
Lucien looked at me like he wanted to argue. Like he wanted to reach out. Like he wanted to say my name the way he used to.
Instead, he nodded. "You're right."
That scared me more than if he'd fought back.
That night, the distance between us felt intentional. Chosen. Like a wall we were both building brick by brick, knowing full well it would trap us on opposite sides.
Lying in bed, staring into the darkness, I realized something with terrifying clarity.
Distance didn't erase feelings.
It taught them how to survive quietly.
And if this kept going, the silence between us wouldn't protect us at all.
It would only make the breaking louder when it finally came.