He stared unseeingly into the empty space where she had been, the hastily discarded sheets a reminder of her. The air still stung with the silence that had reciprocated his confession. He should have known better. Scooping up the sheets and folding them up neatly at the corner of the bed, he wondered where she had run off to. Probably the park near her house to wander around till her feet brings her home again. He wasn't worried. She had build up her walls high and created a self-sustaining fortress. Her independence and confidence have always been one of the many things that had attracted him to her. He loves her strong streak and sensitivity. But it pains him to know what, or who, had made her this way.
When she came back, he had long gone. As usual, he had tidied up the apartment. Last week's Chinese takeaway remnants (and its rotting contents) was missing. And she could smell laundry washing. The clothes strewn over all available surface area of the floors, sofas and fridge were kept away. She had usually thought nothing of it. (If she did, she refused to admit it.) But the typical state of being of her apartment after he came over now have an additional unnerving air to it. Something had changed.
There was something on the kitchen-sill – a box, playfully vandalised with yellow smiley faces. Her hands hovered over the ribbon that tied it together for a second. Unknowingly, she had started praying under her breathe. Don't try romantic words. Please. No promises. Please. Don't force your way in. Please.
When they say Pandora's box should never be opened, perhaps this was it. Inside the box was a single beancurd tart, the one she had mentioned in passing to him last week, and a post-it. It read, "Hey beautiful. No pressure." She eyed the peace offering coldly. Even when she was alone, she held a tight grip on her emotions, her face betraying nothing, if there even was something warm inside her frosty exterior. She couldn't have asked for a better note. But she cannot let a single hole through the walls. Not even one which promises to not be there till she claws it through.
For the rest of the week, the beancurd tart sat together with the post-in and the box in the bottom of the bin till the weekly cleaning lady came to do the house chores.
For the rest of the week, and the week after that, he had waited agonizingly for her. A good morning text, her usual chatter about the latest office scandal, the rising price of martinis, or anything at all. But there was only silence. He had lost count of the number of times he had picked up his phone, typed a message, but never sent it out. If space is what she needs, he's going to give it to her, no matter how much it may kill him in the process.
For the rest of the week, and the week after that, she had functioned on auto-pilot. She wakes up, throws her phone into her bag and grabs a cup of coffee on the way to work. She goes home at midnight and crawls onto the bed. There was something missing in her routine - no lunch dates with him, no texts from him about the latest food place that has opened downtown. But she forced them into the back of her mind. There was no time. There was no use. Most of her, there was nothing inside her to offer to that man who deserves more than a steel heart without the capacity to love.
Finally, at the end of the two weeks, he had had enough. He knows her well enough to know she's running away to not want to confront a reality that she cannot accept.
"New coffee joint near Dale's. Up for it?"
8 words. But he took 8 hours to craft it. It was unlike him. But he is goddam nervous and when you're goddam nervous, you do not dare to let a single thing go wrong.
It took her all of half a second to read it, and another half to delete it. Just as she had done with the rest of her message history with him a week ago.