New York was all Ryan had imagined—and all he dreaded. The city that never slept appeared to throb to a beat of its own, a rhythm that insisted on being heard. Each street corner hummed with humanity hurtling toward something, toward anything, and yet, he felt behind the times, a solitary note in a song that never quite reached its harmony.
It had been two weeks since he and Hazel had come to the city. They had adapted to their new life with an ease that astonished him. Their two-bedroom apartment was tiny, but it was theirs. Plain, practical—nothing flashy. But it sufficed. They had established their routine: wake up, work, return home, repeat. Together.
The days merged together in a fluid dance of routine and shared space. Mornings were a peaceful routine—Ryan rising at 6 AM, preparing, and then the two of them leaving together to board the subway to the office. The ride was lengthy and packed, but he took comfort in these brief moments with Hazel. They didn't have to talk every moment to be on the same page. There was solace in the quiet, in the mutual understanding that they were doing this together.
At the office, their avenues were different. Ryan did backend systems, lost in code lines, while Hazel worked on product design. They both excelled in their new career paths, rising to challenges they never could have dreamed of in school. Still, despite separate projects, they spent their days in the same quiet company. During lunch, they'd gather in the canteen—sharing a quick meal and discussing the day's aggravations, today's coding bug, or the design critique Hazel had endured.
It wasn't work anymore. It was about them.
The longer Ryan was around Hazel, the more he became aware of little things—the way her eyes sparkled when she described a new project, the way her lips crested in a gentle smile whenever he caught her eye. The more he observed her, the more he knew he was falling further than he had ever meant to.
But it wasn't easy. There was tension between them, a strain of unspoken words. They had gone beyond friends to something deeper, but something still kept them apart. It wasn't merely the physical distance the city imposed. It was the emotional distance that neither of them knew how to bridge.
Ryan sensed it—the manner in which Hazel would sometimes withdraw, not physically, but emotionally. She was closed off, and he didn't know how to penetrate that wall she had so diligently constructed. There were times when she would glance at him with a sort of vulnerability, but then, as suddenly as it had emerged, it would disappear behind her typical calm facade.
One evening, after yet another late night at the office, they strolled back to their apartment, the streets too still for a city that never slept. Ryan sensed the heaviness of the silence between them. The city seemed distant, as if it too had stopped, leaving only the two of them alone in this odd place of not quite together, not quite apart.
"You're awfully quiet tonight," Ryan said, attempting to thaw the ice.
Hazel looked at him, her face lit up by the soft light of the street lamps. Her mouth opened as if she was going to say something, but she clamped it shut again, turning away.
"I'm fine," she replied softly, but Ryan could hear the lie in her words. She wasn't fine.
They walked in silence up the stairs to their apartment. Tension between them hung in the air, becoming more dense with each step they made. Upon reaching their flat, Hazel entered her room silently without saying anything. Ryan hesitated, not knowing what to do. He had never been very good at this—at being able to understand the space she placed between them. Was it him? Or was it the way she kept people at arm's length?
The apartment was so quiet it was a chokehold. Ryan went into his room and threw his jacket onto the bed. His thoughts flew around in circles. He knew there was something between them. He sensed it in the way her fingers touched his as they brushed past each other, in the way her voice softened as she said his name. But it wasn't enough to cross the distance she so diligently maintained.
The next day at work, Hazel was aloof. They said hello but that was it. Ryan sensed how she refused to meet his eye, how she hovered on her own more than ever before.
He could not get the impression that anything was amiss, but as soon as he tried to discuss it, she diverted him. "I'm just tired," she would reply, a weary smile on her lips. But Ryan was certain that it wasn't that.
It was something more. Something deeper.
Later that night, after dinner, Hazel sat beside him on the couch, her body inches from his but not quite touching. Ryan faltered, not knowing how to begin the conversation that had been looming over them for days.
"Haze," he began, his voice low. "We need to discuss this. About us."
Hazel's face turned toward him, a mask of unreadability. She parted her lips to speak and then hesitated, her gaze shifting away from him. She appeared to grapple with what she was going to say for a second before her fingers impatiently drummed against her thigh.
"We don't have to discuss it," she whispered to him.
But Ryan was not going to let it drop. He took her hand, his fingers trailing gently over hers. "We can't just pretend everything's okay, Hazel. When it's not."
She met his gaze then, her eyes clashing with his with a ferocity that made his heart pound. For the first time in what seemed an eternity, she dropped her guard—just a little.
"I'm afraid," she confessed, her voice shaking. "Afraid of what this could be. Afraid of what we could be. Because once we take that step. there's no turning back."
Ryan's heart constricted. "I don't want to turn back. I want this," he replied, his voice low but certain.