Aaron's POV
The hum of the engine filled the garage as Aaron parked his car, his hands resting on the steering wheel. He sat there for a moment, unmoving, letting the quiet settle over him. His mind wasn't quiet, though. It was a storm, swirling with thoughts of Layla, of her words earlier that day, of the way she looked when she said them.
Her image came to him unbidden, as it always seemed to lately. His mind drifts back to her at the market—dressed in a soft cream sweater and a flowing brown skirt, that ended up a bit above her knees. No leather jacket, no ripped jeans. Just Layla, stripped of her usual armor. He couldn't stop replaying how her curls framed her face, how her eyes softened when she talked about the circles.
"Circles," he muttered to himself. The outer circle where she kept people at bay, the inner circle where she let only a select few see her true self, and the middle circle—his place.
"She is an enigma," he whispered, his voice low and almost reverent.
Aaron sighed, shaking his head. He needed to stop thinking about her. She was supposed to be a distraction, a way to fill the gaps between soccer practice, classes, and the chaos of his own thoughts. That was the deal: no strings, no complications. But Layla wasn't the kind of girl you could easily compartmentalize.
Sliding out of the car, he grabbed his bag and headed into the house. The emptiness hit him as soon as he stepped inside. It was quiet—too quiet. His dad's working late again and his mom is at his grandparent's place taking care of his grandpa for a week, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He climbed the stairs to his room, tossing his bag onto the floor as he slumped into the chair by his desk.
His gaze drifted to the bookshelf, and his eyes landed on the photo frame sitting on the second shelf. It was an old picture, one he hadn't touched in months. He reached for it hesitantly, as though it might burn him.
The image inside was frozen in time: him and his ex-girlfriend, Sarah, standing close at a party. Her arms were looped around his neck, her blonde hair falling in perfect waves as she smiled brightly at the camera. He looked just as happy, carefree in a way he hadn't been in a long time.
Aaron traced the edge of the frame with his thumb, his chest tightening. Sarah had been everything to him once. They'd spent almost two years together, dreaming about the future, planning trips, and talking about everything and nothing. She'd been the first person he truly opened up to, the first person who saw the parts of him he usually kept hidden.
But it hadn't been enough.
The breakup was unpleasent to say the least. Unpleasent enough to promise himself he wouldn't let anyone get that close again, wouldn't let himself care enough to get hurt.
Setting the photo back down, Aaron leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
He hadn't moved on. Not really.
The box under his bed was proof of that. He'd shoved it there after the breakup, telling himself he'd throw it out eventually. But he hadn't. It was still there, collecting dust, holding memories he wasn't ready to let go of.
Before he could stop himself, Aaron slid the chair back and knelt by the bed. He reached underneath, his fingers brushing against the worn edges of the box. Pulling it out, he sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at it.
The lid creaked as he opened it, and the smell of old perfume and faded paper wafted up. Inside were all the little things he and Sarah had collected over their relationship: movie ticket stubs, a dried flower from their first date, a handwritten note she'd slipped into his bag before a big game.
His fingers hovered over a small bracelet, the leather worn and frayed. She'd made it for him during their first summer together, insisting he wear it as a good luck charm. He remembered how she'd tied it around his wrist, laughing when it was slightly too tight.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips as he held it up to the light. He'd worn it every day for months, until it finally broke during practice. She'd been upset, but he had promised her it didn't matter—it was the thought that counted.
He let the bracelet drop back into the box and closed the lid, pushing it away.
"Why am I doing this?" he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Sarah was his past. Layla was supposed to be his present—a casual arrangement with no expectations, no risks. But Layla wasn't Sarah.
That was the problem.
Layla didn't ask for anything from him. She didn't demand his time or his attention, didn't try to fix him or make him into someone he wasn't. She was independent, fiercely so, and yet there was a vulnerability to her that he couldn't ignore.
He thought about the way she had explained her circles, about how her family was complicated. She hadn't said much, but the weight in her voice had spoken volumes. And then there was her confession: "You're in the middle now."
Aaron hadn't known what to say in that moment. He still didn't.
For months, he'd been telling himself that she was just a distraction, a way to forget about the pressure he was under and the baggage he carried. But he couldn't deny it anymore: he was drawn to her in a way he hadn't been to anyone since Sarah.
That scared him.
"Get a grip," he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. He shoved the box back under the bed, out of sight but not out of mind.
He paced the room, his thoughts spiraling. Layla wasn't supposed to matter this much. She wasn't supposed to make him question everything he thought he wanted—or didn't want. But she did.
Aaron sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. He didn't know what to do with these feelings, didn't know if he should try to ignore them or face them head-on. All he knew was that Layla was different, and that difference was pulling him closer, even when he told himself to stay away.
He glanced at the photo of Sarah on the shelf, then at his phone on the nightstand. The photo was a reminder of the past, of what could go wrong when you let someone in. The phone was a connection to the present, to Layla and the unpredictable mess she brought into his life.
After a long moment, Aaron picked up his phone and opened their text thread. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, but he didn't type anything.
Instead, he put the phone down and leaned back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.
For now, he would let things be. But he couldn't shake the feeling that Layla was becoming more than just a distraction. And that terrified him more than he cared to admit.