Threadless: A sequel or a rewrite?

The hallway was too quiet to be a coincidence.

She turned the corner just as he did.

Neither of them stopped. Neither of them slowed.

Two footsteps.

Two silences.

One accidental glance.

And then—

"…Tch."

He looked away first, feigning deep interest in the white, peeling wall paint.

She folded her arms, pretending she hadn't waited here just long enough to bump into him.

"I didn't think you'd be late," she muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm early."

"Then I'm… earlier."

They stood there like statues sculpted in deflection, the space between them charged with years of almosts.

"You always do this," he said suddenly.

"Do what?" she shot back, almost too fast.

"That look. Like you don't care. Like you didn't just circle this hallway twice waiting for me."

"I circled because I forgot which room—"

"You never forget."

Silence again.

Then:

"I wasn't waiting for you," she said.

He scoffed. "It's not like I wanted you to."

A pause.

A glance.

A heartbeat neither admitted.

"…Still," he added, softer now, "you're here."

"Still," she replied, just as soft, "so are you."

They didn't smile. Not fully. That would have been too much.

But they didn't walk away either.

Instead, they stood there —

two parallel lines

still pretending not to intersect.