The room felt bigger today. Or maybe it was just quieter.
Evan sat at the edge of his bed, fully dressed, shoes on, backpack ready—but with no urgency to leave.
His laptop sat closed. His phone, face-down on the table. For the past hour, he had been pretending to scroll through job listings. But really, he was just reading the same title again and again without clicking.
> "Remote assistant – part-time"
> "Freelance article writer – beginner friendly"
> "Online customer support – flexible hours"
He wasn't picky. He just… couldn't focus.
Because even with all these things in front of him—career options, side gigs, to-do lists—the loudest thing in the room was her absence.
---
It had been two days since Lia said she needed space. She hadn't blocked him, hadn't disappeared, hadn't even unfollowed him.
But the silence in between said more than words ever could.
He hadn't messaged her since.
He promised himself he'd give her the space she asked for.
But now every moment without her voice felt like watching his reflection fade on a fogged-up mirror—slow, blurry, painful.
---
He made his way outside, walking the usual route to the minimarket at the corner.
Every step felt automatic. The same cracks in the sidewalk. The same old dog sleeping near the fence. The same old man selling fruit.
But nothing felt the same inside him.
Even the music in his earbuds—his favorite playlist—sounded hollow.
> "We said forever..."
> "But I'm still waiting in silence..."
He skipped the track.
---
Inside the store, he grabbed instant noodles, canned tea, and a packet of Lia's favorite wafer rolls.
Then stopped.
Stared at the snack.
Then put it back.
She wasn't here.
And there was no point buying something for someone who might not be coming back.
---
That night, Evan cleaned his room for no real reason.
He wiped dust off the fan.
Arranged his books in alphabetical order.
Folded his clothes.
Even cleaned the mirror, only to see the tired version of himself staring back.
He sat on the floor and opened his journal.
Page after page of unfinished entries.
Half-poems.
Song lyrics.
And her name—written over and over again, from weeks ago.
He flipped to a fresh page.
> "I don't blame you. But I don't know how to live without you, either."
He stared at the sentence.
Then added:
> "Maybe love is learning how to walk alone, hoping the path will cross again someday."
---
Later that night, a notification pinged.
His heart jumped.
He grabbed the phone.
New message from: Dimas
Not Lia.
Just his cousin asking if he wanted to hang out this weekend.
Evan typed:
> "Thanks, but I'll pass."
He wasn't ready to pretend everything was fine.
---
As he lay down to sleep, he stared at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above.
Then closed his eyes, whispering into the dark:
> "Goodnight, Lia. I'll say it, even if you can't hear it anymore."