Pole Position: Between Logic and Passion

Distance

“I’m tired, Charles,” I whispered, barely holding myself together. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to stand here and argue about something that shouldn’t have been a lie in the first place.”

Without waiting for a response, I turned and started walking toward the hotel. My steps were fast, focused. Determined. I didn’t trust myself to look back.

But I didn’t have to.

I could hear him behind me. Following.

It didn’t help that we were sharing the same damn room and I had nowhere else to go.

The silence between us had teeth by the time I reached the door. I stepped inside without a word, the air in the hotel suite suddenly feeling too thick, too tight around my ribs.

Charles followed, of course. I could feel him lingering near the door, wanting to speak—maybe even trying to find the words. But none came. Just more silence.

I didn’t look at him. I went straight to my suitcase, pulled out my pajamas with hands that shook more than I wanted to admit, and disappeared into the bathroom. When I came out, I didn’t say a word. Just climbed into bed, pulling the covers over me like a shield.

A few minutes later, I heard him moving. The quiet shuffle of clothes, the zipper of his bag. Then the mattress dipped on the other side.

He’d laid down too.

I stared at the ceiling.

“I feel like we are... over?” he asked, his voice broken, overflowing with guilt.

I didn’t say anything.

He reached for me in the silence. His hand brushed against my arm, then found my stomach. He moved closer, his touch hesitant.

“Amy, talk to me. Please,” he whispered, desperate.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked, my voice void of emotion.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I know I screwed up. I know I should’ve told you. But I didn’t do it to hurt you.” he whispered, the words fragile as they

I closed my eyes, jaw tightening. That was the worst part. He probably didn’t mean to hurt me. But he did anyway.

“What did you think would happen, Charles?” I asked quietly, still staring blankly at the ceiling. “That I’d just… smile through it? Be okay with you needing a break from me?”

He didn’t respond, but I felt his fingers tense softly against my skin, like a silent apology.

“I’m not some placeholder you can step away from and come back to when it’s convenient,” I said, voice flat. “I’m not your safety net.”

Silence stretched thick between us.

“I know,” he finally said, and it didn’t even sound like him—smaller somehow, like he was breaking. “You’re not.”

He shifted closer. I could feel it—the mattress dipping slightly, the warmth of him behind me. It was dark, but I knew he was just inches away.

“Come with me. On this trip,” he said, voice soft.

“No,” I answered firmly, without hesitation.

“Amy—”

“No,” I repeated, sharper this time.

There was a pause. I could feel his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface, the way he always tensed when things weren’t going the way he expected.