November crept in quietly.
A six-month silence had hardened into habit. The only thing left of them—of Ashdres—was digital dust. Liking each other's posts. Occasionally commenting with safe emojis. Keeping up the illusion for fans who still clung to hope.
But liking a photo wasn't the same as asking if someone had eaten.
Double-tapping a post didn't fix what was broken.
Ashtine sat on her bed, legs curled under her, scrolling through her phone with heavy eyes. She paused on a recent post by Andres—a photo of him at a movie premiere. He looked good. Too good. The kind of good that made your stomach twist with anger and longing at the same time.
She had liked it.
Immediately.
Because what else could she do?
Comment something witty and let the fans dissect it? Send a private message and risk silence again? Pretend she didn't care?
So she liked it. That was her language now.
But when she tapped on his profile out of muscle memory, she saw it—his birthday post from the year before. November 5th.
It was only a few days away.
Last year, she had planned a whole surprise with his team: balloons, cake, and a custom keychain she had made herself.
This year… they hadn't spoken since June.
She shut off her phone and pressed it to her chest.
The ache didn't go away.
—
Andres noticed too.
He wasn't numb. He saw every like. Every silence. Every time she watched a story but didn't reply. Every time her name sat just under the list of recent viewers.
It hurt more than being blocked.
At least blocking was final. This was limbo.
He sat backstage before a minor event, phone in hand, staring at her latest post: a blurry shot of a sunset. He knew that rooftop. They used to sneak up there between scenes.
He liked it.
Then locked his phone.
Then unlocked it again.
Then checked her story. A picture of her coffee cup. A song lyric attached: "I miss the us we used to be."
He blinked. That wasn't subtle.
He clicked on her profile again. Saw the dates. Did the math.
Six months.
Her last message.
His unread draft.
And his birthday?
Just four days away.
Would she message him?
Should he message her?
But liking her story felt safer.
So he double-tapped and said nothing.
—
Fans were starting to notice the tension in their digital trail. Edits became more speculative. Threads were filled with things like:
"Why do they keep liking each other's posts but never interact anymore?" "He commented '🔥' once on her pic and deleted it." "She viewed his live but didn't join or comment."
And beneath all the noise, Ashtine felt one thing more than anything else: exhaustion.
Because it was harder pretending they were fine than it ever was being in love.
And liking each other's posts? That was just a quiet way of saying:
"I still care… I just don't know how to show it anymore."
—
The day before Andres' birthday, Ashtine sat at her desk with a blank message box open.
>Happy early birthday. Hope you smile a lot this year.
She typed it.
Then erased it.
Then typed:
>I didn't forget your day. Just forgot how to talk to you.
Backspace again.
She ended up posting nothing.
Just liked his latest post. One of him rehearsing alone.
And said nothing.
But her silence that day spoke volumes.