Almost, Maybe

The park was quiet, the kind of stillness that only came on warm summer nights. The hum of the distant road blended with the rustling of trees, cicadas droning somewhere in the dark.

They sat on an old wooden bench, the same one they always ended up at. It was familiar. Safe. And yet, nothing about tonight felt safe to her at all.

She pulled at the frayed hem of her sleeve, staring ahead at nothing in particular. "So," she said, voice deliberately casual, "how much longer do I have to tolerate your presence before you leave again?"

He huffed a laugh. "Three more days."

"Ugh," she groaned dramatically, tilting her head back. "That's forever."

"You’re awful."

"I know."

It was easier to joke. Easier than acknowledging the way her stomach twisted at the thought of him leaving. Again.

Six years. Six years of knowing him, of feeling the ground shift every time he walked into a room. Of missing him more than she ever let herself say. They video-chatted every week, saw each other six months ago, and still—it never felt like enough.

She exhaled, shifting slightly. Their knees bumped. He didn’t move away.

She should say something real. Something honest. Something that had been pressing against the walls of her ribs for far too long.

Instead, she blurted, "Did you know baby octopuses punch fish just for fun?"

A beat.

Then he turned to look at her, deadpan. "What."

She cleared her throat. "I mean, technically, it might be out of spite. Scientists aren't sure yet."

His lips pressed together like he was fighting a smile. "Are you okay?"

"Me? Oh, fantastic. Why do you ask?"

"Because you only bring up weird animal facts when you’re nervous."

Damn him for knowing her so well.

She crossed her arms. "Maybe I just think it’s a really interesting fact."

"Bea." His voice was softer now.

She swallowed.

He knew. Of course, he knew.

Her fingers curled into her sleeves. "Do you ever think about how simple this could be?"

His expression flickered. "Simple?"

"Us."

She didn’t know why she said it. Maybe because it was the truth. Maybe because she was tired of pretending it wasn’t.

He was quiet for a moment, then said, just as carefully, "Do you wish it were simple?"

She clenched her jaw. "It should be. I mean—if we wanted each other, if we were like normal people, we wouldn’t be sitting here acting like it’s some impossible thing. It wouldn’t feel like—" She gestured vaguely, searching for words. "Like some giant, terrible mistake waiting to happen."

His fingers twitched where they rested between them. "Do you think it would be a mistake?"

Her throat closed up. "I don’t know."

But she did know.

She knew that he made her feel too much, that he had always been a weight in her chest she could never set down. That she wanted him but wanted not to want him even more.

Because wanting him meant eventually losing him.

Because wanting him meant she might never be enough.

His fingers brushed against hers, light, hesitant. "Can I ask you something?"

She nodded, barely breathing.

"Are you scared of what this means, or are you scared because it’s me?"

Her pulse roared in her ears.

It was him. Of course, it was him.

He had always been everything.

And it terrified her.

Her voice came out small. "Both."

He exhaled, slow. "Okay."

Then, just barely above a whisper—"Can I kiss you?"

Her entire body locked up.

A kiss.

With him.

With the person who had been at the center of her world for six years.

With the person she had spent those six years convincing herself she couldn’t have.

A kiss meant letting go of the distance.

A kiss meant letting herself want something real.

A kiss meant knowing, deep down, that it could break her.

She wanted to say no.

She wanted to say yes.

She wanted to disappear into the space between them and pretend none of this was happening.

Her stomach twisted violently, nausea and panic curling around her ribs.

What if she didn’t like it?

What if she did?

What if he left and she could never go back to before?

It wasn’t just about them—it was about everything.

About how they were in this in-between, never quite defined, never quite labeled.

About how this moment could change something in ways she might never be able to undo.

She was drowning in her own head, but then—then she looked at him.

And he was waiting.

Not demanding, not expecting—just waiting.

She realized, in that moment, that she had spent years feeling like this was inevitable. Like one day, they would be something or they would be nothing, and either way, she would have no say in it.

But she did.

She could say no, and he would accept it. She could say yes, and he would be careful.

Her heart was a hurricane inside her ribs.

Her voice barely made it past her lips. "Okay."

He moved carefully, cautiously, like he was afraid she might disappear.

She thought maybe she would.

The first brush of his lips sent lightning down her spine.

It was soft. Hesitant. A question, not a statement.

It didn’t feel like fireworks.

It didn’t feel like magic.

It didn’t feel like the movies.

It felt like him.

Warm and patient and steady, grounding her even as her entire body screamed at her to panic.

Her hands trembled, unsure of what to do. Her thoughts raced, too fast to catch.

She was afraid she would mess it up.

She was afraid it was already too late.

She was afraid she wasn’t enough for this.

But he was still there.

Letting her feel it. Letting her figure it out.

And for a moment—for a single, fleeting moment—she let herself exist in it.

When they finally pulled apart, her head was spinning.

He stayed close, searching her eyes. "You okay?"

She let out a shaky breath, then—because joking was easier than facing the weight of the reality—"Did I do it right?"

He laughed, low and breathless. "Yeah, Bea. You did it right."

Her heart ached. Because this felt right.

And in three days, he’d be gone again.