Two months. That's how long I'd been seeing Isla. Not dating, exactly. We never called it that. Just "seeing each other." Just coffee and movies and bookstore visits and the occasional dinner. Just texts throughout the day about nothing important. Just her laugh that somehow made everything seem brighter. Just her eyes that saw too much.

Just something I couldn't explain to myself, let alone anyone else.

"You're smiling at your phone again," Theo pointed out over lunch. "It's disturbing."

I slipped my phone back into my pocket. "No, I'm not."

"You absolutely are. It's the third time in twenty minutes." He took a bite of his sandwich. "She finally send you nudes or what?"

"Jesus, Theo."

"What? It's a valid question. You've been seeing her for what, two months now? That's like a year in normal person time, given your usual approach to relationships."

I glared at him. "We're taking it slow."

"Glacial is more like it." He wiped his mouth with a napkin. "So what's the hold up? She not into you that way? Or are you overthinking everything again?"

The truth was more complicated than I wanted to admit. Isla and I had settled into this strange in-between space. More than friends, less than lovers. We talked about everything and nothing. We spent time together whenever our schedules allowed. But neither of us had pushed for more, like we were both afraid to upset the delicate balance we'd found.

"It's not that simple," I said finally.

"Sure it is. You like her. She obviously likes you. You're both adults. Do something about it."

I picked at my food, appetite gone. "There's stuff you don't know."

"Like what?"

Like the fact that sometimes I caught her staring into space, her smile slipping when she thought no one was looking. Like the way she flinched at certain sounds. Like the scars on her wrists that we still hadn't really talked about. Like the walls she kept behind her sunshine.

"She's been through some shit," I said instead.

Theo's expression softened. "Haven't we all?"

"Not like this."

"You don't know what she can handle, Cal. You haven't even given her a chance to try."

I changed the subject, but his words stayed with me for the rest of the day. Was I assuming too much about what Isla could or couldn't handle? Or was I just protecting myself from inevitable disappointment?

The questions were still spinning in my head that evening as I wheeled through the park, taking advantage of the unseasonably warm October day. I'd texted Isla earlier, but she was working a late shift at the bookstore, covering for a sick co-worker. I'd offered to bring her dinner, but she'd declined, saying she had leftovers in the break room fridge.

I was rounding the duck pond when I spotted her sitting on a bench, staring at the water. She was hunched forward, arms wrapped around herself, her usual energy muted. She looked small. Vulnerable in a way I'd never seen before.

For a moment, I considered leaving her to her privacy. But then she looked up, as if sensing my presence, and our eyes met across the distance. Her face transformed, sunshine breaking through clouds, and she waved me over.

"Fancy meeting you here," she said as I approached. "Are you stalking me now?"

"Caught me. I've been taking notes from the master."

"I knew it." She patted the empty space beside her bench. "Pull up a... chair."

It was a small joke, one we'd developed over time. Her way of acknowledging my wheelchair without making it A Thing. I positioned myself next to the bench, and we both looked out at the pond where a few determined ducks paddled around the edges.

"Thought you were working," I said.

"Got sent home. Daniel's niece showed up to help, and he said I looked tired." She stretched her arms overhead. "Which was actually pretty nice of him, even if it was a not-so-subtle way of saying I look like garbage today."

"You don't."

"Liar. I got maybe three hours of sleep last night." She rubbed her eyes. "Insomnia's a bitch."

"You should have called me. I'm usually up."

She glanced at me. "At three in the morning?"

"Most nights, yeah."

"Why?"

I shrugged. "Pain, sometimes. Dreams, other times."

"Bad ones?"

"Depends on your definition."

She nodded, not pushing for more. That was one of the things I appreciated about her. She asked questions but respected the boundaries I set. More than I could say for most people in my life.

"Want to talk about it?" I asked after a moment of silence. "Whatever's keeping you up?"

She looked surprised, like she hadn't expected me to ask. "It's nothing exciting. Just the usual late-night brain gremlins. You know, all the bad decisions you've ever made playing on repeat, that kind of thing."

"Sounds familiar."

"I bet." She pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them close. "It's worse around this time of year."

I waited, giving her space to continue if she wanted to. The evening air was cooling as the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. A jogger passed by, music blaring from his headphones. In the distance, children laughed in the playground.

"It's the anniversary," she said finally, so quietly I almost missed it. "Of the bad thing. Six years ago."

The scars on her wrists. The rock bottom she'd mentioned.

"I'm sorry," I said, because I didn't know what else to say.

"Don't be. Not your fault I tried to check out early." She forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Obviously it didn't stick. Silver linings."

The casual way she referenced her suicide attempt made my chest ache. Like it was just another thing that happened, no more significant than a bad haircut or a failed exam.

"Isla."

"Don't." She shook her head. "I know that tone. It's the 'poor broken girl' tone. I hate that tone."

"That's not what I was thinking."

"No? What were you thinking, then?"

"That you're the strongest person I know."

She blinked, clearly thrown by my response. "That's... not what most people say."

"I'm not most people."

A genuine smile crept across her face. "No, you're not." She looked back at the pond. "Anyway, I'm fine now. It was a lifetime ago. Different person, different circumstances."

I knew deflection when I heard it. I'd been using the same tactics for years, changing the subject whenever conversation veered too close to the things I didn't want to talk about. But something made me push a little harder this time.

"What happened?" I asked quietly. "Six years ago."

She was silent for so long I thought she wasn't going to answer. Then, "I trusted the wrong person. Believed the wrong promises. Turned out he didn't want a girlfriend so much as a punching bag he could control." Her voice was steady. "By the time I realized how bad it was, I was too isolated to get out easily. No family, no real friends. Just him and his constant voice in my head telling me I was worthless. That no one else would ever want me."

My hands tightened on my armrests. "How did you get out?"

"The old-fashioned way. Waited until he was at work, packed what I could carry, and ran." She picked at a loose thread on her sweater. "Found a women's shelter two towns over. Stayed there three months until I could get on my feet. They helped me get counseling, find a job, start over."

"And the..." I trailed off, not sure how to ask about the suicide attempt without sounding insensitive.

"The wrist party?" She gave a hollow laugh. "That came later. After I found out he was looking for me. After a mutual acquaintance let slip where I was. After the panic attacks got so bad I couldn't leave my apartment." She took a deep breath. "Not my finest moment."

"You survived," I said. "That's what matters."

"That's what my therapist says, too." She glanced at me. "Anyway, that's why I don't do the whole relationship thing anymore. I'm better at being on my own."

The statement caught me off guard. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't date. Not seriously, anyway." She gestured between us. "This is as close as I get these days. Friendship with occasional coffee."

A weight settled in my stomach. "Oh."

"It's not personal," she added quickly. "It's just... safer this way."

"I understand." And I did, more than she probably realized. Hadn't I been doing the same thing since Kate left? Keeping everyone at arm's length to avoid getting hurt again?

"Most people don't," she said. "They think it's something they can fix. Like if they just love me enough, I'll magically get over it." She snorted. "As if trauma works that way."

"It doesn't."

"No, it doesn't." She studied my face. "That's why I like talking to you, you know. You get it. You don't try to fix me."

"Not my job."

"Exactly." She smiled, a real one this time. "So why do you do it? Date, I mean. You said before that all your relationships since the accident ended the same way. Why keep trying if you know how it ends?"

The question hit deeper than I expected. "I don't know. Masochism? Hope? Stupidity?"

"I vote hope." She nudged my chair with her foot. "Even though you pretend to be all dark and cynical, there's still a part of you that believes it could work. That someone could see past the chair."

I looked away, uncomfortable with how accurately she'd pegged me. "Maybe."

"I think that's brave," she said softly.

"It's not brave. It's desperate."

"Same thing, sometimes."

We fell silent again, watching as the last rays of sunlight glinted off the pond's surface. A cool breeze rustled the remaining leaves on the trees, sending a few spiraling down to land on the water.

"We're quite the pair, aren't we?" she said eventually. "You can't stop hoping, and I can't start."

The observation was so accurate it made my chest hurt. "Seems that way."

"Maybe we cancel each other out. Like matter and antimatter."

"I think that creates an explosion."

She laughed. "Well, there are worse ways to go."

I found myself smiling despite the heaviness of our conversation. That was Isla's gift, finding lightness even in the darkest topics. Sunshine pushing through storm clouds.

"You cold?" I asked, noticing the way she had tightened her sweater around herself.

"A little. But I'm not ready to go home yet." She glanced at me. "Unless you need to?"

"I've got nowhere to be."

"Good." She scooted closer to the edge of the bench, near my chair. "Tell me something I don't know about you."

"Like what?"

"Anything. Something real."

I thought for a moment. "I miss riding the most at sunset. There was something about being on the track as the light changed, everything golden and quiet. Just me and the bike and the dirt."

She nodded, not offering empty sympathies or asking if I'd tried adaptive sports. Just accepting the loss for what it was.

"What do you miss?" I asked.

She considered the question. "Feeling safe," she said finally. "Not looking over my shoulder. Not flinching at loud noises."

"Your ex?" I couldn't keep the edge from my voice.

"Yeah. Stupid, right? It's been six years. He probably doesn't even remember my name anymore. But I still catch myself planning escape routes. Still sleep with my phone under my pillow."

"It's not stupid." I wanted to reach for her hand but stopped myself. "Trauma doesn't operate on a schedule."

"No, it doesn't." She gave me a small smile. "Look at us. Two broken pieces trying to make sense of the leftovers."

"I'm not broken," I said automatically.

Her eyes widened. "God, I didn't mean... I wasn't talking about your injury. I meant emotionally. Like me."

"I know." I hadn't, though, not really. The response had been reflexive, born from years of fighting against people's perceptions. "Sorry. Sensitive subject."

"No, I'm sorry. I should have been more careful with my words." She looked genuinely distressed. "I don't think of you as broken, Callum. Not in any way."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The sincerity in her voice was too much. She meant it, I realized. She didn't see my chair first. Didn't define me by what I couldn't do. And still, a part of me couldn't quite believe it.

"I should probably head back before it gets too dark," she said after a moment. "The buses get sketchy at night."

"You're still looking after your friend's cat?"

She shook her head. "Not really. She came back last night. I'm just staying again because she's a bit jet-lagged."

"Do you want me to drive you?"

"You sure? I don't want to be a burden."

"You're not a burden, Isla."

She smiled, a hint of her usual brightness returning. "There you go again, saying nice things. People will start to suspect you have feelings."

"Let's not get carried away."

She laughed, and the tension broke. We made our way to my car, the conversation shifting to lighter topics. The latest book she was reading. A difficult client I was dealing with. Plans for the weekend.

On the drive to her friend's apartment, she sang along to the radio. I watched her from the corner of my eye, this contradiction of a woman who could carry such darkness and still radiate such light.

I pulled up in front of the building and put the car in park. "Here we are."

"Thanks for the ride. And for... listening." She unbuckled her seatbelt but made no move to get out. "Sorry for dumping all that on you."

"Don't be. That's what friends are for, right?"

The word "friends" felt wrong in my mouth, inadequate for whatever was happening between us. But I didn't know what else to call it, especially after her revelation about not dating.

"Right. Friends." She gave me a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Still on for Saturday? That new mystery author is doing a signing at Horizon. Could be fun."

"I'll be there."

She nodded, finally reaching for the door handle. "Goodnight, Callum. Thanks again."

"Anytime."

I watched her walk to the building, that familiar twinge of longing in my chest. She turned at the door, waved once, then disappeared inside.

The drive home was quiet, my thoughts too loud for music. I kept replaying her words in my head. About not dating. About being better on her own. About me being brave for still trying.

It bothered me, though I couldn't exactly say why. Maybe because she was wrong about me. There was nothing brave about the way I approached relationships. I went in expecting failure, keeping one foot out the door, never fully committing. Always waiting for the other person to realize what they'd signed up for and leave.

Which made whatever was happening with Isla even more confusing. If she wasn't looking for a relationship, and I wasn't brave enough to try for one, what were we doing? Why did I keep seeking her out? Why did she keep letting me?

The questions followed me into my apartment, into my evening routine, into my bed. I stared at the ceiling, sleep elusive as always, when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Isla: Still awake?

I typed back, Yeah. You?

Isla: Obviously. Hence the texting. Brain won't shut up.

Me: Same. What's your brain stuck on?

There was a long pause before her response came through.

Isla: You, actually. I keep thinking about what I said earlier. About not dating. I feel like I should clarify.

My heart rate picked up. Clarify what?

Isla: That it's not because of you. It's not a "it's not you, it's me" thing. It's a me thing that has nothing to do with you. If that makes sense.

I wasn't sure what to say to that. I typed and deleted several responses before settling on, It makes sense.

Isla: Good. Because I like you, Callum. A lot. And in a different life, or if I were a different person, I'd be all in. You should know that.

The admission sent a wave of warmth through me, followed immediately by a chill of reality. All the things that seemed to draw us together, the shared understanding of trauma, the comfort we found in each other, were the same things keeping us apart.

I like you too, I wrote back. And I get it. Really.

Isla: You're the only one who does, I think. Everyone else just tells me I need to "get back out there" or "take a chance." Like it's that simple.

Me: It's never simple.

Isla: Exactly.

I hesitated, then typed, For what it's worth, I think you're brave too. Knowing what you need and sticking to it even when it's hard.

Isla: Look at us, being all emotionally mature and shit. Our therapists would be so proud.

I smiled. Let's not get carried away. I'm still emotionally constipated 90% of the time.

Isla: Only 90%? You're improving! Soon you'll be down to 85% and then you'll practically be a feelings guru.

Me: One step at a time.

We texted for another hour, the conversation drifting to lighter topics. Books we'd both read. A movie she wanted to see. A project I was working on. It was easy, comfortable. By the time we finally said goodnight, it was past two in the morning, and I felt more settled than I had in days.

But as I drifted toward sleep, her words echoed in my mind. I like you, Callum. A lot. Six simple words that shouldn't have meant so much but did. Six words that created more questions than answers.

What did they mean for us? For whatever undefined thing we were building? How could we move forward when we were both so determined to stay in place?

The questions weren't new. They'd been there from the beginning, from that first meeting in the bookstore. But they felt more urgent now, more insistent. Because for the first time in years, I was starting to want something I didn't think I could have.

Her. Us. A chance.

The most terrifying part wasn't that she might leave. It was that she might stay, exactly like this, close enough to see but never to hold. A perpetual state of almost but not quite. And I wasn't sure my heart could take it.

Saturday arrived with a crisp, clear sky and a flurry of texts from Isla about the book signing. She was working the event, but she'd saved me a seat in the front row and promised free coffee from the machine in the back room.

I arrived early, as usual, and found her arranging chairs in the small events space at the back of the bookstore. She wore a yellow dress with a cardigan, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face. She looked tired but happy, her smile brightening when she spotted me.

"You came!" she exclaimed, as if there had been any doubt.

"I said I would."

"I know, but people say they'll come to book events all the time and then bail. It's like the gym membership of social commitments." She gestured to a chair at the end of the front row, the one next to it already removed to make space for my wheelchair. "Reserved seating for my favorite customer."

"I'm your favorite now?"

"Don't let it go to your head. The competition wasn't fierce." She winked. "How are you this morning? Get any sleep after our texting marathon?"

"Some. You?"

"A solid four hours. Practically a new record." She brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Hey, thanks for last night. The texts, I mean. It helped."

"Anytime."

Our eyes met, and something passed between us, an understanding that didn't need words. For a moment, it felt like we were the only two people in the room, despite the growing crowd of book enthusiasts filing in around us.

Then Daniel called her name from the front of the store, and the moment broke.

"Duty calls," she said. "Be right back."

I watched her weave through the crowd, all bright energy and easy smiles. No one looking at her would guess the weight she carried. The fear that kept her up at night. The scars she hid under her sleeves.

But I knew. And somehow, that knowledge felt like both a privilege and a burden.

The signing went well. The author was engaging, the crowd enthusiastic. Isla moved through the event, managing the line, helping customers, always in motion. I found myself watching her more than listening to the author, fascinated by the way she seemed to light up the space around her.

Afterward, when the crowds had thinned and the author was packing up, she dropped into the empty chair beside me, exhausted but triumphant.

"That was amazing! We sold out of all her books. Daniel's practically doing cartwheels in the back room." She leaned her head against the wall. "What did you think of her talk?"

"It was good. Interesting perspective on unreliable narrators."

"Right? That's what I loved about her last book. You never knew who to trust." She turned to face me. "Want to grab lunch? There's a new sandwich place down the block I've been dying to try."

"Sure."

"Great. Let me just help Daniel clean up, and we can go."

She bounced up and began collecting discarded programs and empty coffee cups. I watched her for a moment, then moved to help, gathering what I could reach from my chair.

"You don't have to do that," she said when she noticed.

"I know. I want to."

She smiled, something soft in her expression. "You're full of surprises, Callum Rhodes."

"Hardly."

"See, that's the thing. You think you're this open book, all grumpy and straightforward. But there's so much more going on beneath the surface." She tilted her head. "It's like those mystery novels you love. The clues are all there, but you have to pay attention."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I just kept collecting trash, ignoring the warmth her words had kindled in my chest.

We finished cleaning up, said goodbye to Daniel, and headed out. The sandwich shop was busy but accessible, with wide aisles and tables at the right height. Isla ordered for both of us, somehow knowing exactly what I would want without asking.

As we ate, our conversation flowed easily from books to movies to music, like it always did. The heaviness of our late-night texts set aside for now. But it was there, humming beneath the surface, altering the current between us in ways I couldn't quite define.

"So," she said as we finished our meals, "what's next on your weekend agenda? Hot date? Wild party? Skydiving?"

"Laundry, actually. Very exciting stuff."

"Thrilling. Need company? I make excellent folding conversation."

I raised an eyebrow. "You want to watch me do laundry?"

"I want to hang out with you. The laundry is incidental." She shrugged. "Unless you'd rather be alone. I know I can be a lot sometimes."

"You're not a lot." The words came out more forcefully than I'd intended. "You're exactly enough."

Her eyes widened, a blush spreading across her cheeks. "Oh. That's... thank you."

We stared at each other for a moment, the air between us charged with things we weren't saying. Then she smiled, sunshine breaking through clouds.

"So, laundry date? I'll bring snacks."

And just like that, we were back on familiar ground. "Sure. Why not."

She beamed like I'd offered her the moon instead of an afternoon watching clothes tumble in a dryer. "Excellent. It's a not-date."

"A not-date," I agreed, ignoring the twist in my chest at the label.

Because that's what we were doing, wasn't it? Not-dating. Not-advancing. Not-retreating. Just existing in this strange limbo of almost but not quite.

The scariest part was how easy it would be to get used to it. To accept this half-connection as enough. To convince myself it was all I deserved.

But as I watched her gather her things, talking about what snacks would pair best with laundry, I couldn't silence the voice in my head asking if maybe, just maybe, there could be more.

If the walls between us, tall as they were, might someday come down.