It wasn’t a dramatic fight. No one slammed a door. No one raised their voice. But something cracked between them that evening, something they both knew would be hard to fix.
She sat on the couch, pulling her sleeves over her hands, staring at the TV that wasn’t even on.
He stood near the door like he was already halfway gone.
“You can just say it, you know,” she said quietly. “If there’s someone else, or if you’re just tired of this… whatever it is we’ve become. You don’t have to pretend anymore.”
He blinked. “There’s no one else.”
“Okay. Then what is it?” she asked. “Because it feels like I’m with someone who doesn’t want to be here.”
He didn’t answer right away. Walked a few steps toward her. Sat on the edge of the coffee table, hands folded.
“I do want to be here,” he said. “Just… sometimes it feels like I don’t know how to anymore.”
She looked at him. “That’s not how love works. You don’t get to check in and out when it’s convenient.”
“I’m not trying to,” he said. “I just… I feel like I’m constantly walking on eggshells around you.”
She laughed lightly, but it wasn’t happy. “And I feel like I’m constantly waiting for you to leave.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t want to leave. I swear. But I feel like you’re always pulling away first. So I stop trying. Then you call me distant.”
“Maybe we’re both tired of trying,” she said, softer now. “But I need to know if you’re still in this with me. Fully. Not just when it’s easy. Not just when it feels good.”
“I don’t know,” he said.
There it was.
That silence afterward hurt more than anything else could have.
She stood up slowly, walked to the kitchen. He stayed sitting there, head down, thumb tracing circles on his palm.
No one said the words. No one declared it over.
But something ended in that silence.
And maybe the saddest part is… they’ll still text tomorrow.
Maybe meet next week. Maybe talk like nothing happened.
Or maybe they won’t.
Maybe that night was the last real conversation.
But neither of them said it out loud.
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