Days turned into weeks. Emma distanced herself—not just from Lily, but from Ethan too. She needed to feel something that wasn't confusion or resentment. She threw herself into late nights at work, long runs through the park, anything to outrun the tight knot in her chest.
Ethan tried to be patient. He left her notes, soft reminders of his love—her favorite coffee on the counter, playlists they once made together echoing from the kitchen speaker. But Emma barely responded.
One Friday evening, he waited for her at home, dinner half-cooked and hope flickering in his eyes.
"You don't talk to me anymore," he said when she finally walked through the door.
Emma dropped her bag on the floor. "Because I don't know what to say."
"Say what you're feeling. Yell at me if you have to. Just stop shutting me out."
Emma hesitated, then stepped into the kitchen, where the scent of rosemary and garlic lingered in the air.
"I don't know if I can do this anymore," she said.
Ethan's expression crumpled. "Do what?"
"Be in this relationship and constantly wonder if I'm enough. I hate that I've become someone who doubts everything. I don't recognize myself."
He walked over slowly, cupping her face in his hands. "Then let's find you again. Together."
She looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to cry.
Later that night, Emma sat alone on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, watching the city lights. Her phone buzzed. A message from Lily.
"Still here if you ever want to talk. No pressure."
Emma stared at the screen. The words were simple, gentle. And they stung—but not in the way they had before. There was no accusation, no guilt. Just the quiet presence of someone who hadn't walked away.
She didn't reply. Not yet. But she saved the message.
Maybe some bridges weren't burned—just waiting for the courage to be crossed again.