Distraction

Distraction
I didn’t expect the movie to do anything more than act as background noise. I’d sat down out of habit, out of politeness maybe, not because I needed company. And definitely not because I thought some romantic comedy could pull me out of the fog still clinging to my chest.

But something strange happened.

It started small.

Hazel laughed. A real one. The kind that curled at the edges and tumbled out of her without apology. I felt it before I realized I was smiling—just a twitch of my lips, barely there. Still, it was something. I hadn’t smiled in weeks.

The scene on screen was ridiculous. The main character had just tried baking a birthday cake for the woman he was secretly in love with, but he accidentally added salt instead of sugar. Now he was trying to pretend it was a “trendy savory dessert” while she forced herself to swallow a bite.

Hazel snorted. “That’s literally something I would do.”

I raised an eyebrow, glancing at her. “You’d try to poison someone you liked?”

“No!” she laughed, throwing a pillow in my direction. “I’d just… mess up something simple. Like burning instant noodles. Or calling someone’s dog cute and then realizing it’s a ferret.”

I gave her a long look. “That’s… oddly specific.”

Her grin widened. “Don’t ask.”

The corners of my mouth twitched again, and this time it stayed there longer. The ice cream was half gone, the movie rolling into its midpoint—complete with a montage of awkward but somehow endearing dates—and I realized I hadn’t thought about the dream in at least fifteen minutes.

That was new.

I leaned back into the couch, letting my arm rest behind me. Not around her. Just… there. Close enough to feel her presence, but still respectful of the space between us. Hazel didn’t move away. She didn’t seem uncomfortable anymore. Maybe the movie helped. Maybe it was easier for both of us to pretend the night was simple.

“What’s your favorite movie?” she asked suddenly, her voice softer, cutting through the scene like it mattered more than it should have.

I hesitated. “I don’t really have one.”

“Everyone has one,” she said. “Even if they pretend they don’t.”

I didn’t answer right away. My gaze lingered on the screen, but I wasn’t watching anymore.

The first ten minutes went by in silence. I didn’t care about the quirky girl with the bookstore or the brooding man with the corporate job. I wasn’t even paying attention.

Until Hazel laughed.

It was sudden. Unfiltered. She clapped a hand over her mouth immediately after, like she hadn’t meant to let it out, and that made it even funnier somehow.

“What?” I asked.

She pointed at the screen. “He just tripped on a banana peel. I mean… that’s such lazy comedy, but I swear, it gets me every time.”

I huffed, half-smiling. “You laugh at that, but you say nothing during the actual punchlines.”

“I’m unpredictable like that.” She gave a small shrug and dipped her spoon back into the melting ice cream. “Besides, sometimes stupid humor is comforting.”

I didn’t reply. But I found myself watching the movie now, just a little. The characters were ridiculous. One moment they were arguing in a coffee shop, the next they were fake-dating to save face in front of their friends. Predictable. Absurd. But weirdly… not awful.

Hazel looked more relaxed than I’d seen her since she moved in. Her guard was still there—subtle, quiet—but it wasn’t sharp like before.

I glanced sideways at her. “Do you watch a lot of these?”

“Romcoms?” She nodded. “Yeah. They make bad days less heavy.”

I looked at her longer than I probably should have.

And then she asked, “What about you? Got a favorite movie?”

I didn’t answer right away. The question shouldn’t have made my chest tighten, but it did. I cleared my throat, shaking my head.

“Not really.”

She gave me a teasing look. “You totally have one, you’re just embarrassed to admit it.”

I forced a smirk. “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Come on. I shared mine.”

“You didn’t even name one.”

She grinned. “Fair enough.”

We went quiet again. The movie had reached the point where the fake couple was slowly turning real. The guy gave her his jacket, the girl got soaked in the rain, and the music swelled behind them like something big was about to happen.

Hazel hugged her knees to her chest. “I know it’s silly. But I think… people need stories like this sometimes. Even if they’re fake. Just to remember that not everything has to end in tragedy.”

I didn’t say anything. But her words settled somewhere in me like a bruise I hadn’t noticed before.

I wasn’t sure what kind of ending my life was heading toward. But right now, this moment—this quiet couch, this half-watched movie, this girl I barely understood—it didn’t feel like tragedy.

It felt… still.

And that, strangely, was enough for now.

So I stayed. Not because I cared about the film, but because I needed the distraction.

And because—maybe just maybe—Hazel’s laughter was better than silence.

The movie played on, its scenes bleeding into one another with soft background music and occasional bursts of laughter from the screen. The kind of film that didn’t demand your attention but didn’t let go of it either. A story you could half-watch and still somehow feel something.

We weren’t talking anymore. Just… sitting.

Hazel sat curled up on her end of the couch, legs tucked under her, a blanket pulled loosely over her lap. She wasn’t holding the tub of ice cream anymore—it rested on the coffee table, forgotten and melting—but her fingers were absently twisting the edge of the blanket in her lap. The light from the screen reflected in her eyes, softening the edges of her face. She wasn’t smiling, not really, but she looked… at peace.

And for the first time in a while, I wasn’t thinking about anything else.

Not the deals I hadn’t signed.

Not the press scandals I had to silence.

Not the guilt gnawing at the pit of my stomach like it had claws.

Not her—not Elena, not the memory of a wedding that ended in disaster. Not the haunting quiet of an empty chapel. Not the accusation in people’s stares or the whispers that followed me even now.

None of it.

Just… Hazel.

I looked at her again, turning my head slowly as if afraid that acknowledging the moment would make it disappear. She was so unaware of herself, of the way she leaned slightly toward the television like she cared more than she wanted to admit. Her mouth parted ever so slightly when the characters on screen kissed. Not in a swooning way. Not in some romanticized fantasy. Just a quiet, involuntary reaction.

She wasn’t dressed up. No makeup. Just an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, her hair pulled up
in a loose bun. There was nothing extraordinary about how she looked tonight, but somehow… I couldn’t look away.