Close,But Not Mine
The house was too quiet.
Clara drifted in and out of restless sleep, the warmth of blankets cocooning her body, though a hollow chill lingered inside her chest. Every time her eyes fluttered open, she saw the phone he had left for her on the nightstand—a silent reminder that Ethan was close, yet not truly with her.
When she finally woke after a longer stretch of sleep, the golden morning had melted into an overcast afternoon.
The air in the room felt heavier, quieter, as though even the walls were holding their breath.
Clara pushed herself up slowly, muscles weak but no longer burning with fever.
Her head throbbed, but not as badly as before.
She should have felt better. Instead, unease gnawed at her.
The study. He had said he’d be there. She imagined him bent over documents, eyes fixed, hands steady. Ethan in his world—untouchable, composed, so unlike the version who had sat by her bed earlier, spooning food to her lips without a word. That memory twisted something inside her chest.
She wanted to see him. Or maybe she only wanted proof that he was still there.
Clara slipped her feet into slippers and carefully padded down the hall. The polished wooden floor felt cold beneath her, the silence of the house both comforting and suffocating. As she approached the study, a low murmur broke the stillness—his voice.
She froze, her hand hovering near the doorknob.
“…that’s not the point, Viviene,” Ethan’s voice was low, clipped, but more alive than she’d heard it with her. There was a sharpness there, almost a strain. “You shouldn’t have come to the house yesterday.”
Clara’s breath caught. Viviene. The woman. The glamorous, laughing presence who had seemed to belong to Ethan in a way Clara never could.
Her stomach twisted violently. She pressed closer, heart hammering against her ribs.
“Yes, I know,” Ethan continued after a pause, tone harder. “She saw. She doesn’t say much, but she saw. It… upset her.”
Her. Clara’s chest constricted. He was talking about her.
Clara’s fingers curled into her nightdress, heat rising in her face though her body felt like ice.
“No, Viviene.” His voice grew colder, sharper. “It isn’t about her being a threat to you. It’s about boundaries. You don’t just walk into my house and—”
He stopped, and the silence on the other side stretched. Clara could almost hear the faint lilt of Viviene’s voice through the door, low and smooth, though the words were indistinct.
Ethan exhaled, a sound she barely ever heard from him. Not quite frustration, not quite surrender—something heavier. “Viviene, this isn’t the time.”
Clara’s vision blurred. She leaned against the wall, pressing her hand to her mouth to stop the soft sound threatening to escape. Every word cut deeper—the familiarity in his tone, the way he said her name. Clara had never heard her own name from his lips in that same cadence.
Viviene was everything Clara wasn’t. Effortlessly glamorous, vibrant, a woman who seemed to draw Ethan out of his controlled shell. And Clara? She was pale, feverish, tucked in bed while he laughed with someone else.
She couldn’t listen anymore. She turned away, forcing herself to walk back down the hall, every step heavier than the last. The phone he had left by her bed mocked her now—it wasn’t care, it was convenience. A duty, not a desire.
When she reached the room again, she sank onto the mattress, pulling her knees to her chest despite the weakness that still lingered. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
She hated this part of herself—the part that craved his attention, his love. The part that hurts at every sign of distance. She had told herself over and over not to hope. And yet, every time he revealed a sliver of care, she clung to it like oxygen.
Now it felt like she was suffocating all over again.
---
The door opened softly later, and she scrambled to wipe her face, forcing her expression into something neutral.
Ethan stepped inside, his features composed, though a faint crease lingered between his brows. He carried another tray—this time with tea, broth, and a small plate of bread.
Clara’s chest ached at the sight.
“You should eat,” he said, setting the tray down with the same measured calm.
She nodded, her throat tight. “Thank you.”
He glanced at her, his gaze assessing, lingering longer than usual. “You don’t look well.”
“I’ll be fine.” Her voice was quiet, carefully steady. She lowered her gaze, afraid he’d see too much.
Ethan moved closer, sitting at the edge of the bed again. He checked her temperature with the back of his hand against her forehead—cool, practiced, but his touch lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“You’re cooler,” he said simply.
Clara swallowed. She wanted to ask about the phone call, wanted to demand to know what Viviene meant to him. But the words stuck in her throat. She was terrified of the answer.
Instead, she whispered, “You don’t need to stay. I can manage.”
His jaw tightened. “I told you before. If you need anything, you can call me.”
It should have reassured her. Instead, it hollowed her out further. He stayed, but not for her. He stayed because it was his responsibility, his control. Never love. Never the choice.
Clara nodded faintly. “Alright.”
Ethan’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, and something flickered there—something unreadable, softer than he would ever allow. But then he stood, returning to his usual distance.
“Rest,” he said, before retreating once again.
The door shut softly behind him, and Clara was left staring at the untouched tray, her appetite gone.
In the silence, her heart whispered the words she couldn’t say aloud: Don’t leave me. Don’t choose her.
But the walls didn’t answer.