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Sorry, can't make it tonight. Work emergency.

Delete.

Need to focus on my research for a while.

Delete.

Think we should take a break.

Delete.

I hurl the phone across the room. It bounces off the couch with a soft thud. The thought of not seeing her smile, not hearing her laugh, not watching her eyes light up when she talks about her art - it tears something open inside me.

Distance. That's what logic dictates. That's what keeps her safe. That's what the mission requires.

But my body refuses to cooperate. My heart pounds in my chest like it's trying to break free. My skin burns with the memory of her touch. Even now, I can smell her perfume - that mix of coffee and vanilla that clings to her clothes.

I pace the length of my apartment, five steps one way, five steps back. Each time I pass the phone, it calls to me. Each time I ignore it, the pain gets worse.

The smart play is clear. Pull back. Create space. Let her think I'm just another failed romance. Let her hate me a little. It would hurt her, yes, but a clean break now is better than what could happen if my superiors decide to intervene.

But everything in me screams against it. Every cell rebels at the thought of causing her pain. Of being the reason that guardedness returns to her eyes. Of watching her walls go back up.

I standacross the street from The Love Roast, hidden in the shadow of a bookstore awning. The morning rush hits full swing, and through the window I watch Vanessa move behind the counter. Her ponytail swings as she works the espresso machine, but her movements lack their usual grace. Her shoulders slump. Dark circles ring her eyes.

Three days since I stopped answering her texts. Three days of watching that spark fade from her face.

A customer says something and Vanessa forces a smile - the kind that doesn't reach her eyes. My chest aches. I did that. I put that emptiness there.

She checks her phone during a lull, and I know she's looking for messages from me. My own phone weighs heavy in my pocket, filled with her unanswered texts. Each one cuts deeper than the last.

Hey, haven't heard from you...

Is everything okay?

Jack?

Did I do something wrong?

The last one came this morning:I guess I got my answer.

My fingers itch to respond, to tell her everything. To rush across that street, take her in my arms, explain why I've gone silent. But I can't. Because the moment I do, she becomes a liability. A threat to the project. And I know exactly what happens to threats.

I cross the street, each step heavier than the last. The door pushes back as I enter - a sound that used to make my heart leap. Now it's just another nail in the coffin.

Vanessa's head snaps up, hope flashing across her face before uncertainty takes over. "Jack?"

"Hey." I keep my voice flat, emotionless. Clinical. Like she's just another subject in my research.

"Where have you been? I was worried-"

"Been busy." I cut her off, hating how her face falls. "Look, we need to talk."

She grips the counter, knuckles white. "Okay..."

"This isn't working for me." The words taste like ash. "I don't see it going anywhere."

"What?" Her voice cracks. "But I thought... we were..."