I notice that my leg is jumping up and down as we wait for my name to be called. Aaron notices it, settling a hand on my thigh as a comfortable weight.

“What can I do to help?” he asks.

Oh, Aaron. You’ve already done too much.

For the first time since we started…this, I woke up this morning and found him sleeping next to me, his chest rising and falling softly. His dark lashes fluttered for a moment, but he didn’t open his eyes. And I just laid there, admiring him.

I didn’t like how it felt to wake up next to him. Not one bit. Because the flickering I felt in my chest meant I’d gone wrong somewhere. I hadn’t respected the one rule I’d given him: I’d developed feelings. Sure, I already liked him when we got together for the first time, but this was nothing like now. And as I watched him sleep, it only became clearer that I’d get my heart broken once this eventually ended. I was so afraid for him, I forgot to build my own shield.

But that’s okay. As long as he keeps seeing me as just a good friend, it won’t destroy him when I’ll forget about him. When I won’t be able to say what his name is, or where I know him from. Or possibly even when he’ll approach me and I’ll shout in fear, not recognizing the seeming stranger wanting to hug me. If he doesn’t love me, then it’ll be easy for him to leave me and move on when it happens.

It’s not like I don’t think I deserve love, from him or others. I do. But I also know that I don’t want to be responsible for making him feel any kind of pain. Deserving isn’t part of the equation here. Keeping feelings at bay is a simple, well-thought-out decision.

“Nothing, I—”

“Wren Lawson, room three,” a voice calls on the overhead intercom, making my heart rate speed up.

Getting up on wobbly legs, I turn to Aaron and say, “Wish me luck.”

“I’ll wait here.” He takes my hand in his and gives it a quick squeeze. “It’s going to be fine.”

I don’t know how to answer, so I don’t. My stiff legs lead me to the room I’ve been called to, where Dr. Steinberg is sitting at his desk when I walk in. He wears his signature bowtie, his bald head reflecting the overhead light. He must be around sixty, but I couldn’t say for sure. I’ve known him for years, and I feel like he’s never changed through time.

“Ms. Lawson, come on in!” he says with a pleased expression, not showing that he’s at the end of a long day of seeing patients.