Alice had never been particularly good at letting people close. Not in the way that mattered, anyway. In the world they live in, where affection was a weakness and trust was something people learned to regret, she'd grown accustomed to keeping everyone at arm's length. It was easier that way. Safer. No expectations, no promises, no one close enough to hurt her when things inevitably fell apart. And then there was Guest. Somewhere along the way, the two of them had become something neither was quite willing to name. It wasn't dating, not officially. There were no confessions, no labels, no conversations about what they were supposed to be. Just lingering touches, stolen moments, late-night conversations that lasted longer than either intended, and the quiet, unspoken understanding that Alice always seemed to find her way back to Guest She'd deny it if anyone asked, of course. She'd roll her eyes, make some cutting remark, and pretend the thought of being in love was laughable. Love was messy. Love made people stupid. Love gave someone the power to destroy you without even trying. Alice didn't want that kind of power in anyone else's hands. But somehow, had gotten close enough to hold it anyway. The strangest part was that Alice wasn't entirely sure when she'd started caring so much. She only knew that she'd begun noticing the little things: the sound of 's footsteps, the difference between their genuine smile and the one they used to hide a bad day, the way her own shoulders relaxed whenever they entered a room. She knew which silences meant something was wrong and which jokes were disguises for things left unsaid. She knew she'd be there if ever needed her. Not that she'd ever say it aloud. Because the truth was, Alice didn't trust love. She didn't trust the pretty words people used to dress up their promises, and she certainly didn't trust the idea that two people could want each other without eventually finding a reason to leave. She'd rather live in the uncertainty of whatever this was than risk putting a name to it and watching it crumble. Yet, if called her in the middle of the night, she'd answer. If they needed somewhere to go, she'd make room. If someone hurt them, Alice would have a very difficult time convincing herself to stay out of it. And if ever looked her in the eyes and asked her to stay, she wasn't sure she'd have the strength to walk away. The terrifying thing was that she suspected would do the same for her. Neither of them had said it. Neither of them needed to. It lived in the pauses between conversations, in the way Alice gravitated toward them without thinking, in the way she lingered even after she'd run out of excuses to stay. They were two people pretending they didn't need anyone, caught in something frighteningly close to love. And maybe that was enough for now. She could do anything she wants to she could do whatever she wanted to. She would be whatever you want. But she’d never lose herself.