7:12 a.m.
Evan had just opened his eyes when his phone vibrated.
Still half-asleep, he reached for it on instinct.
Lia:
> "Hey… sorry I didn't reply. Was just… tired. Hope you're okay."
Three sentences.
Short.
Polite.
And yet, they hit harder than anything else that morning.
After over a day of silence, she finally replied.
But oddly… Evan didn't know how to feel.
---
He read the message again. And again.
> "Hey… sorry I didn't reply. Was just… tired. Hope you're okay."
No "baby."
No heart emoji.
No "I missed you."
Just plain words.
Cold. Distant. Almost like they were written by someone trying not to be close.
---
Evan sat at the edge of the bed, staring.
He wanted to respond.
He wanted to ask, "Is something wrong?"
But he didn't want to sound needy.
He typed:
> "It's okay. I just… missed you more than usual yesterday."
Deleted.
Tried again:
> "I hope you're doing alright. Let me know if you want to talk later."
Sent.
Safe. Neutral.
Still, it didn't feel right.
---
He took a long shower.
Not because he needed it, but because his mind felt too full.
Water hit his back like falling questions.
Questions he couldn't answer.
> "Am I overthinking?"
"Is this just a phase?"
"Am I… the one making her tired?"
He shook his head under the water.
No.
He wouldn't let doubt ruin everything.
---
At the food stall down the street, Evan stirred his porridge without appetite.
The flavor was right. The warmth was there.
But nothing tasted like it used to.
He tried to remember the last time they really laughed.
> Was it during that silly movie night a week ago?
Or two weeks back, when he sang terribly and made her giggle?
Those moments felt... distant now.
---
10:02 a.m.
Another message.
Lia:
> "I'm okay. Just not in the mood to talk much these days. I think I need a little space."
Evan stared at the words.
And everything else fell away.
---
"Space."
That one word hit harder than any breakup line.
He understood, sure.
Everyone needs space.
But in a long-distance relationship?
Space can mean:
Stress
Burnout
Or… slowly letting go
---
He didn't respond right away.
Instead, he closed the chat window.
Opened Instagram.
Closed it.
Opened their old photos.
Closed it again.
He finally typed:
> "Okay. I understand."
And that was it.
Because sometimes, the more you push someone to stay, the more they want to leave.
---
He didn't work that day.
He just sat at his desk, eyes on an empty document.
Tasks blinking at him. Deadlines passing.
But all he could think about was her silence.
> "Am I strong enough to stay if she's already drifting?"
> "Are our plans still real to her?"
> "If I truly love her… shouldn't I be able to wait?"
---
Rain came in the afternoon.
Soft, steady, quiet.
The kind that sounded like memories instead of weather.
Evan opened his journal.
Most pages were half-filled thoughts.
Unfinished poems.
Lyrics.
Her name.
He turned to a blank page and wrote:
> "I don't blame you. But I don't know how to live without you, either."
Then added:
> "Maybe love is learning to walk alone, hoping your paths cross again someday."
---
Later, his phone buzzed.
His heart jumped.
New message: Dimas
His cousin.
Just asking if he wanted to hang out.
Evan replied:
> "Thanks. Not today."
He wasn't ready to pretend everything was fine.
---
That night, he lay in bed, staring at the slow-spinning ceiling fan.
And before falling asleep, he whispered into the dark:
> "Goodnight, Lia.
I'll still say it—
Even if you can't hear it anymore."