Chapter 6 Elijah
Chapter six
Elijah
These past few weeks have been hell.
Not loud, fiery hell. No. This is the quiet kind. The kind that creeps in and settles behind your ribs like a weight you can’t shake. A dull ache that lingers from morning ‘til night. I miss her.
Not just the touch. It’s not even about that. It’s her voice. Her laugh. Just… being near her. Existing in the same space, breathing the same air.
But I told myself I’d give her space. She needs it.
Even if it’s the last thing I want.
Since that kiss—Fuck, that kiss—I haven’t let myself look at her for too long. Because if I do, I’ll break my own promise.
And I meant it when I said I wouldn’t cross that line again unless she was the one to pull me over.
Because I love her. Not the flowery, poetic kind of love people write about.
This is the gritty kind. The one that lives in the small things.
Like knowing exactly how she takes her coffee.
Like repainting her store in the middle of the night because she was too exhausted to do it and too stubborn to ask.
Like staying away when all I want is to be close.
She’s been pushed enough in this life. By people who only saw the surface. Who didn’t see her. Who didn't bother to see her and let her be herself without any conditions or expectations.
But I do. And I’ll see her always—even if she never chooses me. So I stay away. Work late. Pretend I’m not listening when Asher talks about her.
Walk past Books & Beans at night like a ghost, just to see if she left a light on. Sometimes she does.
She forgets to turn it off. Burns herself out trying to carry everything on her own.
Every time I almost go in… Every time I almost knock on that door and tell her I’m still here—still hers, if she wants me—I hear her voice from that night. Torn. Worried. Afraid.
So I don’t go in. I don’t knock. I don’t push, I just wait. Because that’s what love looks like sometimes.
Letting go of what you want, so she has the space to figure out what she needs. Even if it tears you in two.
I tell myself it’s fine. That this space—this silence—is necessary.
That it’s helping her, even if it’s killing me. But then I see her.
Sometimes just in passing. Sometimes across the street.
Sometimes through the window of the shop when she doesn’t know I’m looking. And it hurts.
Not because she isn’t mine. But because I don’t know if she ever will be.
She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She laughs, but there's something off in the edges of it.
And I wonder if she feels it too—this thing between us. This unspoken, burning almost.
I wish I could ask. Wish I could touch her, even just her hand. But I don’t. Because love isn’t possession. It’s patience. And I’m learning how to be patient. How to let the fire sit in my chest and not act on it.
How to want her without needing her to want me back right now. Because it has to be her choice.
And maybe that’s the worst part. Not knowing if that choice is coming. Not knowing if she’s leaning toward me… or away.
Some nights, I lie awake wondering if she’s lying awake too. If her thoughts ever drift to me the way mine drown in her.
And I think about that kiss. The way she trembled. The way she leaned in—not just physically, but emotionally, like maybe, just maybe, she was almost ready. But then I remember the way she pulled back after. So I keep my hands to myself. Keep my heart tucked in behind my ribs.
And I wait. Because when you love someone the way I love her, you don’t demand. You don’t push. You stay close enough to catch them if they fall… but far enough to let them fly if that’s what they need.
And maybe she’ll never fall. Maybe she’ll never choose me. But I’ll still be here. Even if it breaks me.
I’m at the studio, trying to focus on a new sketch, but my mind keeps drifting—like it always does. When Asher shows up, there’s a weird look in his eyes. I frown at him.
“Care to tell me why you’re so pale?” I ask, concern creeping into my voice.
Shaking his head, he says, “I overheard Ava and Mia. Talking about a date.”
My stomach drops.
“A date?” I force the words out, like they taste wrong on my tongue.
Asher nods, “Yeah. She’s going out with someone else.”
I want to ask who. I want to know when. But mostly, I just want to scream.
Because the thought of her—my Ava—with someone else isn’t just a punch to the gut. It’s a gut-wrenching reminder of what I might be losing.
“I—” I start, but the words catch in my throat.
Asher doesn’t say more. He knows better than to push. He just gives me that look—half sympathy, half warning.
I try to steady my breathing, but everything inside me is screaming.
She’s moving on. Without me. And all I can do is watch. Stand here, broken but silent. Because I promised I wouldn’t push. But damn it, it hurts like hell.
I slam the sketchbook shut and run my hands through my hair, pacing the room. The silence of the studio suddenly feels suffocating.
She’s going on a date.
The words echo in my mind, a cold weight sinking deep into my chest.
I want to call her, to yell, to beg her to reconsider. But the promise I made holds me back. I won’t push.
Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets and stare out the window, watching the city lights blur as my vision goes fuzzy. The night outside feels too alive, too full of possibilities that don’t include me.
***
Later, at Books & Beans, I see Ava. Standing behind the counter, the way the light hits her hair makes it glow. I want to reach out, tell her everything—the fear, the hope, the love—but my voice catches in my throat.
So I just stand there, quiet, until she notices me.
Her eyes flicker with surprise, then something unreadable. She wipes her hands on her apron and steps closer.
“You heard?” she asks, voice low.
I nod, swallowing hard. “Asher told me.”
She looks away for a moment, then back. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”
“I wish you told me,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
She sighs, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I wasn’t sure how to. I’m sorry.”
I step a fraction closer, careful not to cross the line I promised not to. “Ava, I don’t want to lose you. But I can’t force you either.”
Her eyes search mine, softening. “I don’t know what I want yet.”
“Whenever you’re ready. I’m here.”
She gives me a small, shaky smile—the kind that holds both hope and fear.
And in that moment, even with everything uncertain, it feels like maybe… maybe there’s still a chance.
I watch her walk away, the small smile still lingering on her lips, and my chest tightens. Every step she takes feels like both a promise and a threat—like she’s walking toward something new but leaving me standing still.
I want to shout after her, tell her how much I need her, how much I’ve been hurting every single day since that kiss. But I bite back the words. Because if I push now, if I try to hold on too tight, I might lose her for good.
I’m not ready to give up. Not yet.
I replay her words over and over in my head. “I don’t know what I want yet.” The uncertainty cuts deep, but it also leaves a crack wide enough for hope to slip through.
Maybe this space she needs isn’t a goodbye. Maybe it’s just the pause before we find our way back to each other.
Or maybe it’s a chance for both of us to heal, to become the people we need to be before we can be together.
Either way, I’m here. Waiting. Hoping.
Because some things are worth the wait, no matter how much they hurt.