Jacob liked how easily Amaya made him smile.
That part was undeniable.
Her texts lifted his mood without effort. Her jokes landed even on days when nothing else did. He caught himself rereading her messages, not because he missed the words, but because he liked how they made him feel—light, seen, understood in a quiet way.
And yet.
There was a part of him that stiffened whenever things edged closer.
He didn’t know when that part of him was born. Maybe from past expectations. Maybe from watching how easily closeness could turn complicated. Maybe from knowing himself too well—knowing how much responsibility he felt once someone truly mattered.
Jacob was friendly by nature. Warm. Open. People mistook that warmth for emotional availability all the time. And every time someone crossed that invisible line—every time they assumed he was ready—something inside him retreated.
Not because he didn’t care.
But because caring came with weight.
With Amaya, the line felt dangerously thin.
He enjoyed her presence, but he noticed how his chest tightened when someone else mentioned her casually. How he felt oddly unsettled imagining her growing closer to him—not emotionally, but personally. The idea of being someone important in her life scared him more than being just another name in her inbox.
He asked himself questions he didn’t know how to answer.
What if she expects more than I can give?
What if I ruin something good by letting it go further?
What if I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to?
Jacob wasn’t unaware. He felt the pull. The comfort. The familiarity that had formed without his permission. But feelings, to him, weren’t just emotions—they were commitments waiting to happen.
And he wasn’t sure he was ready for that.
Sometimes, when she got quieter, he felt relief instead of concern. Other times, when she was especially warm, especially present, he felt the urge to pull back—not from her, but from the situation itself.
It confused him.
How could something that made him happy also make him uneasy?
He didn’t want to hurt her. That was the part that mattered most. He liked her too much to be careless with her feelings, but not enough—at least not yet—to know what he was meant to do with them.
So he stayed where it was safe.
He laughed. He replied. He kept things light. He avoided questions that lingered too long. He told himself that if he didn’t name anything, nothing could demand an answer.
But silence, he would later learn, could be an answer too.
Late at night, when conversations slowed and the screen dimmed, Jacob lay awake with thoughts he didn’t share. He wondered if she felt more than he did. Or if she was simply enjoying the moment, the way he pretended to.
He didn’t know what he was feeling.
He knew what he wasn’t feeling—certainty.
And that scared him most of all.
Because Jacob was a good man. He didn’t play games. He didn’t lie. But he also didn’t know how to step forward when his heart lagged behind his intentions.
So he stayed in the in-between.
Smiling at her messages.
Finding comfort in her presence.
And quietly hoping the question neither of them had asked would wait a little longer.
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