Back then, Jenny would always wait at the gate in front of my house every morning we had school. She'd lean against the front wall, crossing her arms and with a fake annoyed look on her face like I was a little too slow. But the moment I got near her, her hand would find mine, and the smile would sneak its way in. On the way, we would make silly jokes and laugh with each other.
We weren't loud about it. We didn't need to be. It was just easy. She'd tug on my sleeve or tap on my shoulder while I was taking a nap in class or when I was zoning out, and I'd draw dumb little cubes and random circles in her notebook margins when she was bored. I thought we understood each other. I thought she liked the quiet parts of me.
It didn't fall apart all at once. At first, it was just little things. She stopped texting goodnight or forgot to wait for me in the mornings.
"Sorry, my mom rushed me out the door," she'd say, brushing it off. I believed her.
Then came the excuses. She was "busy with group work," or "had to study alone," or "needed space because she was stressed." I didn't want to be clingy. I didn't want to be the kind of guy who made her feel trapped. So I said okay, just brushing it off. I always said okay.
One afternoon, we were sitting outside after school. She was scrolling through her phone, half-listening while I talked about the new movie that came out and that we can go on a date to see it. She didn't look.
"Are you even listening?" I asked, laughing a little to keep it light.
"I am," she replied, but she still didn't meet my eyes.
I stared at her for a moment. The sun hit her hair just right, the way it used to in those early days, when she'd lean on my shoulder and talk about anything and everything.
"Hey," I said quietly with a hint of concern, "is something going on?"
That time, she looked at me—but only for a second.
"No. I'm just tired."
I nodded. I didn't believe her, but I nodded anyway.
The weeks passed like that. Our conversations became shorter. Her eyes stopped shining the same way when she looked at me. I couldn't tell if I had done something wrong, or if she was just done with me and didn't know how to say it.
Some days she was normal again—she'd laugh, sit beside me, text me during class. And I'd think, Maybe I imagined it.
But then the next day, she'd disappear all over again. Sit with other people in the class. Leave my texts on read. It was like being loved in past tense.
One night, I was reading a book sitting on my bed when she finally texted.
Jenny: hey
Jenny: can we talk tomorrow?
I stared at it for a long time. The words felt like a trap door.
Me: sure
She never brought it up the next day.
I stopped asking questions. I stopped trying to fix it. All I could do was wait for her to come back to me. To look at me like she used to. To continue our relationship to make it like old time.
She never did.
The worst part was how normal everything looked on the outside. We still passed each other in the halls. Still shared a class. But we didn't laugh anymore. Didn't touch. Didn't crack jokes with each other. She didn't even look my way unless the teacher called our names one after the other to answer a question.
That's how I learned hearts don't shatter. They just wear down.
A few weeks later, my mom sent me out to pick up baking soda. It was almost evening. The sun was dipping low behind the rooftops, the sky glowing soft orange and a bit of yellow. I had headphones in, some playlist I barely listened to anymore. My jacket sleeves were pulled over my hands. Just another quiet walk, like always.
Until I saw her. Across the street. Leaning into someone. A guy I don't even know. His hands were on her waist. Hers on his shoulders.
And then they kissed.
It wasn't quick. It wasn't hesitant. It was the kind of kiss you don't give unless it means something.
My feet stopped moving. The money for the baking soda crumpled in my fist.
I stood there until a car honked behind me, snapping me back. I turned and walked the other way, my heart hammering, my ears ringing louder than my music.
She never told me. Never explained. Never apologized.
But I knew then that the version of her who used to tug on my sleeve and smile like I was enough—she was gone.
And I didn't even know when I lost her.