I stared at Ethan.

For once, the floating comments had nothing to say.

Emma was engaged.

The cat was for me.

And Ethan was standing in the guest bedroom looking more disturbed by my distance than I had ever seen him look during all my affection.

—Nobody told me.

His eyes narrowed.

—That’s not true.

I swallowed.

How could I explain something I barely understood myself?

—What if I told you I suddenly realized I might have been suffocating you?

Ethan was silent.

I continued:

—I hug you whenever I want. I steal your side of the bed. I call when you’re away. I demand kisses. I wait for you after work. Maybe I never asked whether you actually liked any of it.

He stared at me for several seconds.

Then:

—I don’t like cold feet.

My heart sank.

Ethan continued:

—Especially when you put them against my legs at two in the morning.

I looked down.

—Right.

—But when did I tell you to stop?

I looked up.

He was frowning.

—I complain because they’re freezing. Then I pull the blanket over them.

He took another step.

—There’s a difference between complaining and wanting you gone.

The comments suddenly returned.

He’s afraid of losing control.

Don’t misunderstand possessiveness for love.

I instinctively looked toward them.

Ethan noticed.

—Again.

—What?

—Your eyes.

He followed my gaze toward the empty wall.

—You keep reading something.

I said nothing.

He surprised me by reaching for my suitcase.

Then he closed it.

—You’re not moving out tonight.

My temper finally appeared.

—You can’t decide that.

His hand stopped.

Then he released the suitcase.

—You’re right.

That answer surprised both of us.

Ethan took a breath.

—Then don’t leave until we actually talk.

So we talked.

Not perfectly.

Not romantically.

But honestly.

Ethan admitted physical affection hadn’t come naturally to him when we first started dating.

His family had been formal to the point of absurdity.

His parents shook hands after arguments.

His father had once congratulated him on graduating with a nod.

Then I arrived.

I hugged him.

Touched his arm while talking.

Fell asleep on his shoulder.

Kissed him simply because he entered the room.

At first, he hadn’t known what to do with me.

—So the comments were right.

—What comments?

I quickly corrected myself.

—I mean… so I did bother you.

—At first, sometimes.

That hurt.

He saw it immediately.

—Amelia.

—It’s fine.

—No. Listen.

He sat across from me.

—I wasn’t uncomfortable because it was you. I was uncomfortable because I wasn’t used to anyone being that close.

His voice became quieter.

—Then I got used to you.

He paused.

—Too used to you.

The floating words flickered.

Temporary attachment.

Once Emma becomes available—

I stood abruptly.

Ethan frowned.

—Where are you going?

—To sleep.

—Here?

—Yes.

He looked at the guest bed.

Then at me.

—Fine.

He walked out.

I told myself I was relieved.

Ten minutes later, my door opened.

Ethan entered carrying his pillow.

I stared at him.

—What are you doing?

—Respecting your decision to sleep in the guest room.

He placed the pillow beside mine.

—You said you were sleeping here. You didn’t say I couldn’t.

Despite everything, I laughed.

Ethan’s expression softened immediately.

And that frightened me more than the comments.

Because maybe I’d been so busy believing strangers that I’d stopped observing the man actually standing in front of me.

For the next two weeks, I decided on something different.

I wouldn’t chase Ethan.

But I wouldn’t run from him either.

I would simply stop initiating everything.

The result was almost ridiculous.

On Monday morning, I left without kissing him.

At 8:17, my phone vibrated.

Did you forget something?

I replied:

My umbrella?

No.

Lunch?

No.

I knew exactly what he meant.

I put my phone away.

At 8:19:

Amelia.

At 8:20:

Seriously?

I smiled despite myself.

That evening, Ethan was waiting outside my office thirty minutes early.

Julian saw him through the glass.

—Your security detail has arrived.

—He’s not my security detail.

Julian glanced at Ethan.

—That man looks like he’s preparing to arrest me for speaking to you.

When I walked outside, Ethan took my bag.

—How was work?

—Fine.

—Lunch?

—With Maya.

—Tomorrow?

I looked at him.

—Why?

—I’m asking you to lunch.

I blinked.

During our relationship, I had always been the one organizing lunch dates.

—Are you pursuing me, Mr. Blake?

—Don’t make this weird.

—You’re blushing.

—Get in the car.

By Friday, he had become worse.

Flowers appeared on my desk.

My favorite dessert appeared in the refrigerator.

He began calling during business trips.

And whenever he came home, he would stand near me for an absurd amount of time without saying what he wanted.

Eventually I understood.

He was waiting for his hug.

I deliberately didn’t give it.

After returning from a three-day trip, he lasted forty-seven seconds.

Then he opened his arms.

—Well?

I looked at him innocently.

—What?

—Amelia.

—Yes?

His jaw tightened.

—Come here.

I burst out laughing.

The supposedly touch-averse man finally walked over and hugged me himself.

The comments went wild.

He’s only responding because she’s withdrawing!

Exactly.

For once, I agreed with them.

Because withdrawal had revealed something neither Ethan nor I understood before.

I’d spent years expressing enough affection for both of us.

Ethan had never needed to learn how to initiate because I always reached for him first.

When I stopped, the silence bothered him too.

And he finally had to cross it himself.

The final proof came a month later.

Emma invited us to her engagement dinner.

She arrived holding hands with Daniel Hayes, Ethan’s legal director.

The moment Emma introduced me, she smiled.

—So you’re Amelia.

I frowned.

—You’ve heard about me?

Emma laughed.

—Constantly.

I turned toward Ethan.

His face became suspiciously blank.

Emma continued:

—During our first meeting, I asked Ethan whether he owned a cat because he had cat hair on his jacket.

I remembered that day.

I’d spent the morning playing with Maya’s kitten.

—He spent fifteen minutes explaining that his girlfriend wanted one.

Emma grinned.

—Then he showed me six photographs of cats you’d sent him.

I stared at Ethan.

—Six?

—It wasn’t six.

Emma pulled out her phone.

—Would you like screenshots?

—Emma.

Daniel laughed.

The comments appeared.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Emma should be interested in Ethan.

The plot is changing.

My smile disappeared.

The plot.

Suddenly, everything clicked.

These weren’t predictions.

They were expectations.

Whoever—or whatever—was producing those comments had decided how the story was supposed to unfold.

Emma was supposed to be the protagonist.

I was supposed to be the annoying girlfriend.

Therefore every event was interpreted to fit that conclusion.

Ethan arrived late?

Emma distracted him.

Ethan bought a cat figure?

Obviously Emma gave it to him.

Ethan became jealous?

Male pride.

No matter what happened, the comments simply invented another explanation.

And I had believed them because they had discovered the insecurity I already carried.

That night, I finally told Ethan.

Not everything.

Just enough.

—I spent the last month believing that eventually you’d realize I’m too much.

He looked at me.

—Too much what?

—Too affectionate. Too dependent. Too clingy.

Ethan was quiet.

Then he asked:

—Do you remember our first weekend together?

I nodded.

—I couldn’t sleep because you kept hugging me.

My face burned.

—That’s not helping.

—Let me finish.

His expression softened.

—The following weekend, you went home.

I remembered.

—And I couldn’t sleep because you weren’t there.

I stared at him.

Ethan looked embarrassed by his own confession.

—I didn’t understand it then.

He took my hand.

—You became part of what home feels like.

The floating comments appeared again.

Don’t believe him.

He doesn’t know what he wants.

Soon he’ll—

I looked directly at the words.

And thought:

No.

They stopped.

For the first time, I didn’t argue with them.

Didn’t analyze them.

Didn’t fear them.

I simply stopped giving them authority.

One by one, the sentences faded.

And they never returned.

A year later, Ethan and I moved into a new apartment.

We also adopted a cat.

A fat orange menace named Winston who preferred Ethan despite supposedly being mine.

One evening, I came home late.

Ethan was cooking.

Winston was sitting on the counter supervising him.

I quietly approached from behind.

For a second, I hesitated.

Old memories.

Old doubts.

Then Ethan spoke without turning around.

—If you’re standing there debating whether you’re allowed to hug me, the answer is yes.

I smiled.

—Maybe I don’t want to.

He turned.

—Excuse me?

I walked past him.

Ethan immediately followed.

—Amelia.

I kept going.

—Amelia.

I reached the sofa.

He caught up, sat beside me and pulled me toward him.

I laughed.

—What happened to personal space?

—Overrated.

—Avoidant personality?

—Who diagnosed me?

—The invisible audience.

—They sound incompetent.

I rested my head against his shoulder.

Ethan kissed my forehead.

That was when I finally understood what had really happened.

I hadn’t saved our relationship by becoming quieter.

I hadn’t won Ethan by transforming myself into some perfect, independent woman.

I had simply stopped doing all the emotional work for both of us.

And Ethan, confronted with the possibility of losing something he’d taken for granted, finally learned to reach for me too.

The mysterious comments had promised that once I stopped chasing him, Ethan would move toward the “real protagonist.”

They were wrong.

I stopped chasing Ethan Blake.

And for the first time since we’d fallen in love—

he learned how to chase me.