Clocked Heart

Chapter 21- June

It had been a week since Graham had been in my house, tending to me with a kindness that felt as soothing as it did suffocating. Despite everything, we hadn't touched the subject of that night at the festival. The kiss. The shared moment that had upended the careful balance I'd worked so hard to maintain. I was avoiding him now, obsessively, as if my sanity depended on it. The moment they left after breakfast, I'd sworn to keep my distance. The idea of facing him, pretending nothing had happened between us, was simply unbearable.

I hated myself for it, for hiding from someone who had done nothing but show me consideration and care when I needed it most. But avoidance felt safer. When I was sick, it was easier. I didn't have the energy to come up with excuses or to keep my walls firmly in place. But now, with my strength back, I could go back to what I was good at—building barriers and creating distance.

The shared backyard? I hadn't set foot in it since that day. The curtains in my living room were always drawn, blocking out the world and, more specifically, the sight of his house just next door. My balcony, the one overlooking the beach where I'd spent so many evenings in quiet solitude? Forgotten. I'd convinced myself it was too cold, the chill in the air biting through the flimsy excuse I gave anyone who asked.

And the beach? My sanctuary. A place that once calmed my restless mind now felt like enemy territory. I didn't dare go there anymore. Not with the chance of running into him. Not with the chance of remembering that easy smile of his, or the way his eyes softened when they met mine.

God, it was pathetic, the way I was acting. But I had my reasons—reasons that felt all too real in the endless churn of my overthinking mind. Graham had a way of getting under my skin, of making everything feel easy, comfortable, and dangerous all at once. He could draw people in without trying, and make them feel like they belonged in his orbit. And somehow, I'd ended up in his.

But I couldn't let it happen. Not with him. Not when I knew the weight he was already carrying—the grief he wore like a shadow, the loss of his wife, and the way he tried to shield his daughter from her own private sorrows. Graham had enough to deal with without me complicating his life further. I was nothing if not a complication.

So I'd resolved to sabotage whatever this was, to smother any flicker of connection before it could catch flame and consume us both. I wasn't going to be reckless with my heart—or his. Not again. The line between us needed to remain clear, sharp, and unmovable. Even if it meant retreating into the walls I'd spent years perfecting.

I wasn't a fool. I knew what I was doing was self-sabotage, pure and simple. But what was the alternative? Letting feelings grow into something more, letting hope creep into the corners of my carefully guarded life? No. Hope was dangerous. Feelings were dangerous. And I couldn't afford either—not now, not ever.

So I pulled back, withdrew, and created distance where there had once been something close to intimacy. It was better this way. Safer. I needed to protect myself, to stay clear of the wreckage love could leave in its wake. And if that meant living in my own self-imposed exile, then so be it.

As the days slipped by, I threw myself into a routine with the kind of single-minded focus that bordered on obsession. I wrote for hours on end, buried myself in work until my fingers ached from typing, and meticulously avoided any unnecessary encounters. I planned my days down to the minute—grocery runs at odd hours, and walks through the neighborhood when I knew I wouldn't bump into anyone, especially Graham. The more I isolated myself, the more I felt that cold, familiar comfort of solitude wrap around me. It was a barrier, an armor against the chaos of emotions threatening to break through the cracks.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't escape the shadows of my choices. In the middle of a sentence, in the middle of folding laundry, or while pouring my morning coffee, his face would flash in my mind. Graham, with his quiet strength, his easy smile, the way he had tended to me when I was too weak to refuse it. Those memories, unwanted as they were, haunted me. They reminded me why I had chosen this path—why I had retreated. But they also left me feeling empty, a hollow ache where something more should have been.