The morning sun spilled through Evan's curtains like an invitation to start over.
But his body didn't move.
He stared at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of traffic outside, birds in the distance, and the occasional motorcycle zooming past. Life, as always, moved on.
But inside his chest, time was slower.
---
It had been four days since Lia asked for space.
She hadn't said anything since.
No messages. No voice notes. No little "❤️" reactions on his stories. Nothing.
And Evan? He kept his promise.
No calls. No check-ins.
He let her be.
But he was learning something new:
> Silence isn't quiet.
It's deafening.
---
He tried to distract himself.
He applied to two freelance jobs.
Reorganized his Google Drive.
Watched three random documentaries in a row.
Started reading a book he'd abandoned months ago.
But everything, no matter how unrelated, reminded him of her.
---
The book?
A romance story.
Two people who met online and promised each other forever.
He closed it after chapter two.
The documentary?
About long-distance families.
He skipped through most of it.
Even his job applications?
One of the forms asked:
> "Who keeps you motivated?"
He almost wrote her name.
But didn't.
---
By late afternoon, he decided to go out.
Maybe fresh air would help.
He walked around the block, hands in his pockets, earbuds in, music low. The sun was warm on his neck, but his chest felt cold.
At the corner bookstore, he paused.
He hadn't been inside in months.
He walked in.
---
The smell hit him first—aged paper, wood shelves, and soft coffee from the tiny café inside. It used to be their favorite weekend spot. Evan would browse while Lia ordered something sweet and overpriced.
> "You never actually buy anything," she once teased.
"You just hold books like they're puppies."
He smiled at the memory.
Then frowned.
---
He wandered to the poetry section and ran his fingers over the spines of the books.
Soft, textured, faded from time.
A small white book caught his eye: The Art of Missing Things.
He opened to a random page.
> "I miss you in the spaces between my thoughts—
where silence grows louder than love ever dared to."
He closed the book.
Too real.
---
Back at home, he sat by the window, watching the sky turn orange.
His phone sat nearby. Still quiet.
He reached for it.
Opened their chat.
Typed.
> "Hey."
Deleted.
Typed again.
> "Just thinking about you today."
Deleted.
Again.
> "It's okay if you're not ready. I'm still here."
He stared at it.
Then locked the screen.
No message sent.
---
Later that night, a song came on shuffle—one they used to listen to together during calls.
His fingers hovered over the skip button.
But he didn't skip it.
He let it play, eyes closed, heart wide open.
Because even if she wasn't talking to him…
Even if she was nowhere near…
Lia was still everywhere.
In the songs.
In the air.
In the silence.
---
And Evan?
He was still here.
Not waiting. Not begging. Just... existing.
In the space between love and letting go.