They didn't break up.
Not immediately. Not even after the burn in her chest or the sleepless nights she spent replaying everything. They stayed together—but something had shifted. There was space between them now. Unspoken, uncomfortable space.
They still met on Saturdays. They still talked. But the rhythm was different. The silences grew longer. The laughter more forced. Their once-easy conversations now felt like carefully walked paths, avoiding the cracks that had started to spread.
Elara tried to push down her doubts. She told herself it was just a phase. That every couple goes through rough patches. But late at night, she'd stare at her phone, waiting for his "goodnight" texts that used to come like clockwork. Now they came late. Sometimes not at all.
Zeon said he was tired. That work was demanding. That he was trying.
And maybe he was.
But Elara couldn't stop asking herself—was he trying for her, or was he just trying not to lose what was convenient?
They both pretended. Pretended it didn't hurt. Pretended they were okay. But when love starts to feel like effort instead of ease, it changes everything.
The space between them widened. And neither of them knew how to close it.
Elara started pouring more into school, more into herself. She studied longer, focused harder, hoping distraction would numb the ache. She stopped checking her phone constantly. Stopped texting first. If he wanted her, she needed to see him prove it.
Zeon, on the other hand, seemed caught between two worlds—still showing up, but never fully present. Like his body was there, but part of his heart had retreated.
They still held hands. Still kissed. Still called each other "baby."
But nothing felt the same.
It was the beginning of emotional distance—so slow, so silent, that neither of them could pinpoint the exact moment it started. But they both felt it.
And Elara began to wonder: could love survive in silence?
Or was this just the start of the end?