Chapter 27 Just Friends for Now
Clara’s room felt different after the hospital.
The walls were the same pale cream, the curtains still half-drawn to soften the afternoon light, but the air had changed. It was quieter, not with emptiness, but with something newly fragile. The oxygen concentrator hummed softly beside her bed, a steady reminder that she was home but not untouched by what had happened.
Peter sat on the chair near the window, turned slightly toward her, as if he wanted to give her space without actually leaving it. He had placed the bouquet on her bedside table, trimming the stems carefully and arranging them in the glass vase her mother brought in. Clara watched him do it, noticing the care in his movements, the way he treated even the smallest task as if it mattered.
“Those flowers didn’t deserve to suffer,” he said lightly, stepping back to examine his work.
Clara smiled. “You’re very serious about floral well-being.”
“I try to be,” he replied. “They’ve had a rough journey.”
She laughed softly, and the sound surprised her. It had been a while since laughter came without effort, without pain tagging along behind it. Peter noticed too. His expression shifted, not dramatically, just enough for her to catch the relief that flickered across his face.
They settled into a comfortable rhythm after that. He pulled his chair closer to the bed, close enough that their knees almost touched, but not quite. Close enough to feel intentional.
They talked.
Not about Amsterdam. Not about doctors or oxygen levels or what-ifs.
They talked about how they met, really met, beyond the surface of support group introductions and careful politeness. Peter admitted he hadn’t known what to expect that first day, only that he’d seen her sitting there with her hands folded too neatly in her lap, like she was trying to take up less space than she deserved.
“I thought you looked… brave,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And also like you were pretending.”
Clara raised an eyebrow. “Pretending?”
“That you weren’t terrified,” he said honestly.
She exhaled slowly. “I was.”
They talked about fears, the quiet ones they rarely voiced. Peter spoke about feeling useless sometimes, about the helplessness that came with watching someone you cared about fight something you couldn’t punch or fix. Clara told him about the nights she stayed awake counting breaths, wondering which ones might be the last that felt normal.
They talked about inevitability, though neither of them used the word directly. It lived between their sentences, hovering unspoken.
At some point, Peter leaned back and asked, “Can I ask you something?”
Clara nodded.
“Why me?” he said. “I mean… out of everyone.”
She thought about it for a moment. “Because you don’t look at me like I’m already gone.”
The room went quiet.
Peter swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor before returning to her. “I don’t think of you like that,” he said firmly. “I never have.”
She believed him.
Time passed gently, marked by the slow shift of sunlight across the room. When Clara grew tired, Peter noticed before she said anything. He adjusted her pillows, lowered his voice, let the space soften without making her feel weak for it.
It was in one of those quieter moments when the world narrowed to the sound of breathing and the closeness of shared silence that Clara felt the weight of what they were becoming.
And how fast.
“Peter,” she said softly.
He turned to her immediately. “Yeah?”
She hesitated, fingers twisting lightly in the edge of her blanket. “I need to say something.”
His posture changed, not defensive, not eager. Just attentive.
“I don’t want to rush us,” she continued. “I don’t want to take something this real and turn it into something fragile just because everything else feels uncertain.”
He frowned slightly, concern edging into his expression. “Are you saying...”
“I want us to be friends,” she said gently. “For now.”
The words landed between them, delicate and heavy all at once.
Peter didn’t speak immediately. Clara watched the disappointment cross his face, quick and unguarded before he smoothed it away. It hurt to see, even though she knew she was the one causing it.
“Friends,” he repeated quietly.
“Yes,” she said. “Not because I don’t feel this. But because I do.”
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling for a moment, as if searching for the right response there. When he looked at her again, his eyes were honest, even if they carried a trace of sadness.
“I won’t pretend that doesn’t sting,” he said. “But I get it.”
“You do?”
“I think you’re trying to protect something,” he said. “Us. Even if you’re not ready to call it that.”
Her throat tightened. “Thank you for understanding.”
He smiled, small and sincere. “I said I wasn’t going anywhere, remember?”
They didn’t kiss.
They came close, close enough that Clara could feel the warmth of his shoulder, the faint brush of his sleeve against her arm. Close enough that the space between them felt deliberate rather than empty.
When evening settled in and her parents gently reminded him it was getting late, Peter stood reluctantly. At the door, he paused.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I don’t think friendship looks like this.”
Clara smiled softly. “Neither do I.”
After he left, the house felt quieter than before. Clara lay back against her pillows, staring at the ceiling, replaying the day in fragments, the way he looked arranging the flowers, the sound of his laugh, the way he accepted her boundary without trying to bend it.
Her phone buzzed in her hand before she realised she’d picked it up.
She typed slowly, deliberately.
Thank you for understanding. Just friends.
The reply came quickly.
Always.
They exchanged a few more messages, light, gentle, unforced. Until the words blurred slightly and sleep crept in around her.
As Clara drifted off, phone resting against her chest, one truth lingered quietly in her mind:
They could call it friendship.
But neither of them believed it would stay that way.