"We were too close for comfort. But neither of us moved."
I motioned for her to get in the car, the air thick with something unspoken. She slid into the passenger seat, pulling the seatbelt across her chest without looking at me. Her fingers brushed the fabric of the seat like she was afraid to touch anything too real.
I started the engine, the low hum of the car filling the silence between us.
"So," I said, keeping my gaze on the road. "How was your flight?"
It was a stupid question. She'd probably been asked a hundred times already, but it was all I could think of to break the quiet.
"Long," she replied, her voice soft, almost distant. "Too long."
I glanced at her for a split second, just enough to see her eyes fixed outside the window. There was a tension in her posture, like she was trying to remain as far from me as possible while sitting inches away.
I didn't blame her. I didn't know what she'd been through, but I'd seen her type before — the ones who kept their walls high, their thoughts hidden behind a calm exterior.
I clenched my jaw, focusing on the road again. Her silence gnawed at me. It wasn't awkward. It was just… too much.
I shifted gears, the car slowing as I approached a red light.
"So," she said, breaking the quiet for the first time, her voice almost like a question. "Is it always this quiet?"
I raised an eyebrow, surprised by the directness. "What do you mean?"
"The house, I mean." She glanced at me finally, her gaze sharp, though still guarded. "Is it always… like this?"
I shrugged, keeping my tone light. "Depends on who's home."
Her lips parted for a moment, as if she had more to say but couldn't find the words.
She wasn't saying much, but there was something in the way she listened that made me want to tell her everything. The kind of quiet you felt in your chest, like she was waiting for you to say something real, something meaningful.
I hated it. And yet, I couldn't stop myself from wondering what she would say next.