Waiting had become a habit.
Not the hopeful kind—the kind that sits quietly in the background of your life, demanding nothing and taking everything. Lily realized this one morning as she stood at the window, watching people hurry past the house with purpose in their steps.
Everyone seemed to know where they were going.
She didn't.
Behind her, the house was quiet again. Mark was still away, and Ethan had already left for college. The silence should have felt peaceful. Instead, it pressed against her ribs, tight and unyielding.
This is fine, she told herself.
This is control.
But control felt an awful lot like loneliness.
Ethan felt it too.
He sat in class, eyes on the board, mind somewhere else entirely. His professor's voice faded in and out, replaced by thoughts he couldn't shut down no matter how hard he tried.
The way Lily had looked the night he'd heard her crying.
The way she'd said she felt like she was losing control.
The way neither of them had pulled away when they should have.
Waiting wasn't solving anything.
It was just stretching the tension thin enough to hurt constantly.
After class, he skipped the library and walked instead—no destination, just movement. The city buzzed around him, alive and indifferent. He wondered how many people around him were carrying feelings they didn't know what to do with.
Probably more than he thought.
By the time he reached home, the sky was already turning orange.
Lily was in the kitchen again.
She always was.
Cooking had become her anchor—something tangible, something she could finish. Tonight, she moved slower than usual, distracted, her thoughts drifting despite her efforts.
Ethan stood at the doorway for a moment before stepping in.
"Hey," he said.
She turned, surprised, then smiled faintly. "You're back early."
"Yeah. Didn't feel like staying out."
She nodded, wiping her hands on a towel. "Dinner's almost ready."
"Need help?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "You can cut the bread."
They worked side by side, careful not to brush against each other. The space between them was deliberate now—measured.
Still, the awareness lingered.
"So," Ethan said, breaking the silence, "Mark called today?"
"Yes," Lily replied. "He'll be back tomorrow night."
"Oh."
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
She noticed.
"Is that a problem?" she asked gently.
"No," he said quickly. "I just… didn't know."
She studied him for a moment, then turned back to the stove.
"Everything changes when he's here," she said quietly.
Ethan swallowed. "Yeah."
They didn't elaborate.
They didn't need to.
Dinner passed without incident.
Too calm. Too controlled.
Afterward, Lily gathered the plates while Ethan stood awkwardly by the table.
"I can wash those," he offered.
She shook her head. "It's fine."
"Lily," he said, a bit more firmly. "Please."
She paused, then handed him a plate.
They stood at the sink together, shoulders close but not touching. The warm water ran steadily, a constant presence filling the silence.
"You don't have to be so careful all the time," Ethan said softly.
She stiffened slightly. "I do."
"Why?"
She didn't answer right away.
"Because if I stop," she said finally, "I'm afraid I won't know where."
He dried his hands slowly, choosing his words with care.
"And if being careful is hurting you?"
She laughed quietly, without humor. "Most things that hurt us start out as something we think we need."
He turned to face her.
"Is that how you feel about me?"
The question hung between them, dangerous and unavoidable.
Lily looked at him, truly looked at him, for the first time in days.
"Yes," she said.
His chest tightened.
"But also," she continued, "you're not something I regret."
That felt worse—and better—than any denial could have.
That night, Lily couldn't sleep.
She lay awake listening to the faint sounds of the house, replaying the conversation over and over. Saying the truth out loud had shifted something inside her.
She wasn't just waiting anymore.
She was resisting.
And resistance took energy she wasn't sure she had left.
She got out of bed and walked to the living room, sitting on the couch with her knees drawn up. The house felt too big, too hollow.
A few minutes later, footsteps sounded behind her.
She didn't turn.
"I thought you were asleep," Ethan said softly.
"I could say the same."
He hesitated. "Mind if I sit?"
She shook her head.
He sat at the opposite end of the couch, keeping the distance she'd insisted on. The television was off. The only light came from the lamp in the corner, casting long shadows.
"This feels familiar," he said after a while.
She glanced at him. "How so?"
"Us. Awake. Talking when we probably shouldn't be."
She smiled faintly. "Yeah."
Another pause.
"Ethan," she said, "do you ever wish things were simpler?"
"All the time," he replied.
"And?"
"And then I realize I'd probably miss the complicated parts too."
She laughed softly. "That sounds like something you'd say."
He shrugged. "I mean it."
She looked at him, her expression unreadable.
"Waiting isn't enough anymore," she said suddenly.
His breath caught. "What do you mean?"
"I mean… pretending this will fade on its own. Pretending distance will fix it. It won't."
He nodded slowly. "I know."
"But knowing doesn't tell us what to do."
"No," he agreed. "It just tells us we can't keep standing still."
Silence settled again, but this time it felt different—less heavy, more honest.
The next day was harder.
Mark returned late in the evening, filling the house with noise and presence. Lily slipped easily back into her role—attentive, polite, composed.
Ethan watched it happen with a strange mix of admiration and sadness.
At dinner, Mark talked about his trip, his frustrations, his plans. Lily listened, nodding at the right moments. Ethan contributed when asked, careful not to linger.
Everything looked normal.
Too normal.
After dinner, Lily excused herself early.
"I'm tired," she said. "Long day."
Mark nodded distractedly. "Get some rest."
Ethan stayed behind, helping clear the table.
"You good, kid?" Mark asked casually.
"Yeah," Ethan replied. "Just busy with classes."
Mark smiled. "That's good. Keep your focus there."
Ethan forced a smile of his own.
Upstairs, Lily lay awake again.
She stared at the ceiling, her earlier words echoing in her mind.
Waiting isn't enough.
She wasn't asking for something reckless.
She was asking for clarity.
And clarity, she knew, would change everything.
A few days later, an unexpected moment arrived.
Mark left early one morning, rushing out the door with barely a goodbye. The house settled into quiet again, familiar and unsettling.
Lily was in the kitchen when Ethan came downstairs, his bag slung over his shoulder.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," she replied.
They stood there, facing each other, the air charged with everything they'd been avoiding.
"I might not be home tonight," Ethan said. "Group project."
She nodded, then hesitated.
"Ethan," she said.
"Yes?"
"If… if waiting really isn't enough anymore," she said carefully, "what do you think comes next?"
He looked at her, heart pounding.
"I think," he said slowly, "that we have to stop pretending we don't feel this."
Her breath caught.
"That's dangerous," she whispered.
"So is lying to ourselves," he replied.
They stood there, neither moving, neither crossing the space between them.
Not yet.
But something had shifted.
Waiting had done all it could.
Whatever came next would require a choice.
And both of them knew—
They were running out of excuses not to make it.
End of Chapter 6