The hate between us

Chapter 3: Silent Heat

The funeral ceremony was a blur of whispered condolences, hushed prayers, and the quiet sound of people shifting in their seats. I sat near the front, my eyes fixed on the casket, though my mind wandered elsewhere. I was aware of every movement, every breath next to me. He had taken the seat directly to my right, and I could feel the heat radiating from his body, the closeness making my skin prickle with awareness.

I hated how much space he seemed to take up, how the air between us felt charged, suffocating. I stared straight ahead, forcing myself to focus on anything but him—on the solemn words of the priest, on the steady rise and fall of my breath.

But the tension simmered in the small space between us, like a barely contained storm. Every time he shifted in his seat, I felt it. Every time his elbow brushed the armrest that separated us, a sharp jolt of awareness shot through me. I clenched my fists in my lap, determined not to let him see how much he affected me.

The room was filled with quiet grief, the soft murmur of people mourning. His mother sat on his other side, her eyes red and swollen from tears, but he didn't seem to notice. I wondered if he even felt anything at all. He hadn't shed a tear, hadn't shown any sign of emotion. Cold. Distant. Just like always.

But then, just as I was beginning to convince myself that the silence would last—that we could make it through the ceremony without another word—a sudden, accidental touch shattered everything.

---

It happened so fast I almost didn't register it.

The ceremony was ending. People were beginning to stand, shuffling to leave. As I moved to rise from my seat, my hand grazed his. The briefest of touches, just the brush of skin against skin. But it was enough.

A shock ran through me, freezing me in place for a split second. His hand was warm—too warm. I could feel the calluses on his fingers, rough against the back of my hand, sending a trail of heat up my arm and into my chest. I jerked my hand away instinctively, but it was too late. The moment had passed, but the sensation lingered, seeping into my skin.

I didn't dare look at him. I didn't need to. I could feel him next to me, could practically hear the steady rhythm of his breath, controlled but tense. My pulse quickened, my heart hammering in my chest. Why did that simple touch feel like it had ignited something inside me, something I wasn't ready to face?

Before I could process the confusion surging through me, he stood up abruptly. He didn't glance back, didn't say a word. He just left.

I watched him walk away, his shoulders stiff, his back rigid with tension. It was as if he needed to get out of the room as quickly as possible—as if staying any longer would have forced him to confront whatever it was we were both pretending wasn't there.

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat growing heavier as the room slowly emptied around me. People began offering their final condolences, hugging my stepmother and my father, but I stayed rooted in place, my mind racing.

The touch had been nothing, an accident. That's what I told myself. But deep down, I knew it wasn't the touch itself that had unsettled me. It was what it had revealed—the undercurrent that had been there all along, simmering beneath the surface, just waiting for the right moment to break free.

I shook my head, forcing myself to stand. It was ridiculous. We had hated each other for so long. It didn't make sense. It wasn't real.

But as I glanced toward the door where he had disappeared, a knot of uncertainty coiled in my chest, tighter than before.

Because for the first time in years, I wasn't sure if I hated him at all.