Adrian - A Boy Running from Himself

Adrian was like any other boy Leo had known, and yet something about him always felt just out of reach. He was charming without trying—the kind of person people gravitated toward effortlessly. With others, he laughed easily, spoke freely, and stayed present.

With Leo, it was different.

Sometimes Adrian sat so close their shoulders nearly touched, close enough to feel familiar, almost safe. Other times, he kept his distance—his body angled away, his attention drifting elsewhere. And then there were days when Adrian walked past Leo as though they were strangers, as if whatever existed between them could be switched off at will.

Leo never understood why closeness unsettled him. What hurt most wasn’t the distance itself, but the way it changed Leo. He stopped asking Adrian how his day had been. He stopped reaching out first. Their conversations became careful and hollow, stripped of warmth, as if both of them were afraid of saying the wrong thing. Still, Leo stayed. It felt easier than naming what was missing.

One afternoon, tired of guessing, Leo finally asked Adrian why everything between them felt so empty—why Adrian never initiated, why he never stayed long enough to finish a conversation.

Adrian didn’t look at him. He just shrugged, his eyes fixed on the ground.

“I’m not really good at staying,” Adrian said quietly.

The words settled heavily between them. After that, Leo began noticing the small things: the way Adrian checked his phone when silence lingered too long; the way he remembered insignificant details but avoided personal ones; the way his voice softened only briefly before retreating again.

Leo wanted to understand him, but Adrian never spoke about himself—not fully. He offered fragments, never the whole story.

There was one night when Leo thought things might finally change. They sat on a park bench, close enough to feel each other’s presence, far enough to feel the space between them. The air was still, expectant.

Leo waited for Adrian to say something that mattered.

Instead, Adrian stood.

“I should go.”

And just like that, he left. No explanation. No glance back. Leo didn’t stop him. He didn’t ask him to stay. Somewhere inside, Leo already knew how that would end.

Time passed quietly. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months. Adrian didn’t disappear entirely—he lingered in unfinished conversations and unsent messages, in thoughts that surfaced when Leo least expected them. Leo told himself it was foolish to be so affected by someone who had never truly stayed. Life, after all, kept moving.

Then one day, by chance, Leo saw Adrian again.

He looked the same—tired eyes, familiar gestures, the same careful smile. For a moment, it felt as though no time had passed at all.

“I was never distant because of you,” Adrian said suddenly, as if continuing a conversation they had paused long ago. “I just didn’t know how to be close without losing myself.”

Something tightened in Leo’s chest. For the first time, he didn’t feel rejected—he felt Adrian’s fear. Adrian hadn’t been running from Leo. He had been running from himself.

Later, Leo came to understand him better. Adrian had learned early on that staying came with quiet consequences—expectations, questions, an invisible pressure that settled slowly but heavily. Leaving was easier. Distance was lighter. He carried people only until the weight became noticeable, then set them down before it could hurt.

People called it independence.

With Leo, things had been different. Leo was steady where Adrian was restless, open where Adrian was guarded. Their friendship had begun simply—shared silences, small observations, time passing without effort. Adrian liked that Leo didn’t disappear, that he meant what he said.

But steadiness, Leo learned, can feel like a demand to someone who doesn’t know how to return it.

For a while, the balance held. They talked every day. Trust grew quietly, naturally. The friendship became a place that felt safe—for both of them.

Then, slowly, Adrian’s replies shortened. Conversations lost their warmth. Leo blamed himself, replaying every interaction, wondering what he had done wrong. When he finally asked Adrian why he was pulling away, Adrian smiled gently and said, “I’m just busy.”

It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the truth.

Eventually, Leo asked again. This time, Adrian didn’t hesitate.

“I don’t know how to be close without losing my space,” Adrian said. “I need distance.”

Leo nodded, even though the words stayed with him long after Adrian left.

After that, silence took over. Messages went unanswered. What they had existed only in memory—something that had been real once, but no longer lived anywhere tangible.

At first, Adrian felt relieved. He had time again. Freedom again. But the relief faded into something quieter. The absence lingered. He told himself distance was peace, though it didn’t quite feel like it.

A year later, they ran into each other unexpectedly. There was no tension this time, no weight. Adrian seemed steadier, more grounded, but also less hopeful.

“I used to think you didn’t care about me,” Leo said calmly. “Now I think you just didn’t know how to.”

Adrian didn’t argue.

They didn’t talk about repairing anything. They talked to understand. When they parted, there were no promises—just clarity.

As Adrian walked away, he finally understood something he had avoided for a long time: leaving had always come naturally to him. Staying, on the other hand, required skill.

And skills—unlike instincts—could be learned.

Leo had already done his part.