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 l...
An open diary where thoughts flow like ink—unedited, unscripted, unforgettable.