When he messaged me again after five months of silence, all he said was:
"Where are you?"
No apology.
No context.
Just that.
And somehow… I still replied.
Still went to see him.
Still showed up.
But the version of me that returned wasn't the same one that had been left behind.
During those five months of silence, something in me shifted.
At first, I was hurt. Deeply.
I hoped.
I waited.
I cried into my pillow at night and overthought every last thing I said to him before the silence.
But then slowly… I began to close off.
I wasn't loving him with the same fire anymore.
But I was still afraid of losing him.
Still hanging on to a hope that maybe, this time, he'd choose me.
We were skating together again.
In the same group.
In the same spaces.
But he didn't want anyone to know there was something between us.
Not the group.
Not even his energy.
It was like I existed in the shadow of something almost real.
There's this thing that happens when you see someone you've missed for too long:
Your brain forgets the silence.
Your body remembers the closeness.
The first time I saw him again at the skate park, I froze.
Not because he did anything.
But because he didn't.
No reaction. No acknowledgment.
Just a nod, like I was someone he passed by every week.
And I hated how much I was relieved to just be seen.
We were never "a thing" at the skate park.
He made it clear
"Don't act weird here."
"Let's just keep it chill."
"People don't need to know everything."
So I played along.
I stood on the sidelines. Skated my laps.
Laughed when others laughed. Never touched him. Never got too close.
He hugged other girls, not in a flirty way, just casually, like it meant nothing.
But with me, he kept a quiet distance.
Deliberate. Calculated.
Like he didn't want anyone to guess that I mattered, even a little.
And I told myself:
This is how he is.
He's private.
Not secretive. Just… lowkey.
But deep down, I knew.
If someone wants to be associated with you, they don't make you invisible.
We skated in the same circles.
Same paths. Some nights.
But I was always two paces behind.
Always just out of reach.
And still, I showed up.
Because a part of me believed if I stayed long enough, if I showed him I could be easy, chill, unproblematic, he'd change his mind.
Nia saw it before I could say it out loud.
"You're not skating with him. You're skating around him," she said.
"And you're calling that closeness."
I didn't respond.
The first night I went back to his place, I texted him first.
I didn't just show up.
You don't do that with someone like him, someone who treats space like sacred ground.
I said,
"It's raining. Should I still come?"
He replied,
"Yeah, come."
Just that.
When I got there, the door opened before I knocked twice.
He smiled a little. Not wide, just enough to make me exhale.
He took the plastic bag from my hand, the one with painkillers and cookies I'd picked up on the way.
Asked, "You good?" and meant it.
Then he made hot tea.
Not because I asked, just did it.
Brought it to me in that glass mug I always liked, the one that made everything taste softer.
I sat on his bed, socks off, hoodie still on.
He handed me the tea and said, "Careful, it's hot."
It was. But it felt good. The steam, the smell of ginger, and the way he adjusted the fan for me without saying anything.
That night, he treated me like a queen.
Not with big gestures, just small kindnesses I had missed.
We watched something random on YouTube, shared the pillow, and laughed at things only half-funny.
And when it was time to sleep, he turned to me and said,
"You'll sleep better here."
Like it wasn't a big deal. Like it hadn't been five months since I was last in that bed.
I didn't ask questions.
I didn't bring up the silence.
I just stayed.
Drank my tea.
And memorized the version of him that made me feel wanted, even if I knew it wouldn't last.
Because when you're busy surviving, maybe, the truth sounds cruel.