I stopped pretending I'd give her space.
Space was what had ruined everything in the first place.
Jay kept her door closed now.
Not slammed. Not locked. Just… closed. Like a statement. Like a reminder that whatever access I once had was gone—and I didn't get to ask for it back.
Still, I tried.
Every morning, I timed my steps so I'd catch her in the hallway. Every evening, I listened for her door. Every time the elevator dinged on our floor, my chest tightened like maybe—maybe—this would be the moment she looked at me the way she used to.
She didn't.
The first time I spoke to her after the elevator, she was checking her phone, keys in hand.
"Jay."
She paused. Didn't turn.
"I made coffee," I said quickly. "You used to like it—"
"I don't anymore," she replied, still not facing me.
A lie.
But it was her lie, and I wasn't allowed to challenge it.
The second time, I reached for her instinctively when she stumbled over the edge of the carpet.
My hand barely touched her arm.
"Don't."
Again.
That word followed me like a shadow.
"I was just—"
"I know what you were doing," she said, finally meeting my eyes. "And I said don't."
I dropped my hand like it burned.
Lucas was there more often now.
Not hovering. Not showing off. Just present. Sitting on the opposite couch. Walking beside her, not ahead, not behind. Like he understood exactly how much space she needed—and respected it.
That alone made me want to tear something apart.
I hated that he knew her like that.
I hated more that she let him.
One night, I knocked on her door.
Once.
Twice.
She opened it halfway.
"Yes?"
"I need five minutes," I said. "That's it. I won't touch you. I won't argue. Just… listen."
She studied my face for a long moment.
Then she opened the door wider—and stepped back.
Hope flared.
Dumb. Dangerous. Mine.
I stood there, heart hammering. "I'm trying, Jay. I'm really trying. I've cut everyone off. I ended things properly. I'm fixing what I can."
"That's good," she said.
Just that.
No praise. No relief.
"That's it?" I asked.
"That's it."
I took a step closer. "Does none of that matter?"
She held my gaze, steady and distant. "It matters to you."
The words landed clean. Surgical.
"I didn't do those things to hurt you," I said quietly.
She nodded. "I know."
That felt like mercy.
Then she added, "But you still did them."
Silence stretched.
"I miss you," I admitted, the truth slipping out before I could stop it.
Her expression didn't change. "I miss who I was before you made me doubt myself."
That was worse.
I reached for her again—slower this time, careful, like she might shatter.
"Jay—"
"Don't," she said sharply. "I warned you."
"Why are you so cold?" I demanded, frustration finally breaking through. "You act like I'm nothing to you."
She stepped back.
And that was the moment I realized—this was her boundary.
"I'm cold," she said calmly, "because warmth makes you think you're forgiven."
I froze.
"I'm not."
The door closed.
Not slammed.
Just closed.
The next morning, flowers sat outside her door.
Not from me.
I knew that immediately.
Jay stared at them for a long second before picking up the card. Lucas leaned against the wall nearby, unreadable.
She didn't smile.
She didn't blush.
She simply took them inside and shut the door.
Something twisted inside my chest.
I tried harder after that.
Too hard.
I cooked meals she never ate. Left notes she never answered. Waited in hallways she walked past without slowing.
Every attempt was met with the same thing.
Distance.
Clarity.
Cold control.
One evening, I caught her by the elevator again.
"Jay," I said softly. "Look at me."
She didn't.
"I'm not asking for forgiveness," I continued. "I'm asking for a chance to prove myself."
She finally turned.
"You had that chance," she said. "You spent it."
The elevator doors opened.
She stepped inside.
Lucas followed.
I stayed where I was, watching the doors close like they always did now—slow, deliberate, final.
I wasn't giving up.
But for the first time, I understood the truth she was showing me without raising her voice:
Trying harder didn't mean I deserved her again.
And Jay?
She wasn't pushing me away anymore.
She was moving forward.
Without me.