Love is supposed to feel steady, like a song that never loses its rhythm. But sometimes the notes shift without warning, and you don't notice until the music no longer sounds the same.
With Bethy, the change was small at first. A missed call. A forgotten text. A smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
I told myself it was nothing. People get busy. Classes pile up. Life happens. But deep inside, a quiet unease started to grow, the kind you try to ignore because you're too afraid of what it might mean.
It began one late afternoon after class. I was waiting for her outside the lecture hall, holding that same coffee she loved. The crowd poured out of the doors, students laughing, rushing to get away from campus. Bethy walked out with them, but her steps slowed when she saw me. For the first time, I caught something in her face; hesitation, almost guilt.
"Hey," I greeted, smiling, lifting the cup toward her. "Two sugars, extra cream."
She took it, but her fingers didn't brush mine the way they used to. "Thanks, Joe," she said softly, eyes darting past me.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
"Yeah. Just tired," she replied quickly, too quickly, before taking a sip. The coffee seemed to interest her more than I did.
I brushed it off. Maybe she was tired. Maybe she had too much on her mind. But the seed of doubt had been planted.
A few days later, we were studying in the library. She always liked the corner table, away from the noise. Usually she'd lean against me, asking silly questions, or doodle hearts in the margins of my notebook. But that day, she sat a little farther away, her phone lighting up again and again on the table beside her. Every time it buzzed, she flipped it over quickly, face down, as if she didn't want me to see.
"Who keeps texting you?" I asked, keeping my voice light.
"Nobody," she said too sharply, then forced a smile. "Just group chat stuff. You wouldn't care."
I let it go. But inside, something cracked.
That night, she canceled our dinner plans, saying she had to meet a friend. When I asked who, she dodged the question. "Just a friend, Joe. Don't worry about it."
But I did worry. I worried all night, staring at my phone, waiting for a text that never came.
The following week, she grew colder in ways I couldn't explain. She still kissed me, but sometimes it felt like habit rather than passion. She laughed at my jokes, but her eyes often wandered, like her thoughts were somewhere else. I tried harder. I brought her flowers, surprised her with small gifts, took her on long walks. She accepted it all, but I couldn't shake the feeling that my efforts were bouncing off a wall I couldn't see.
The breaking point came one Saturday. We were supposed to go out for lunch, but she called last minute, saying she wasn't feeling well. Concerned, I decided to stop by her apartment anyway. I bought her soup from her favorite diner, thinking it would make her smile.
When I got there, I knocked, balancing the bag in my hands. For a long moment, there was no answer. I was about to leave when the door finally cracked open. Bethy stood there, hair messy, eyes wide. Behind her, I swore I heard movement, the faint sound of footsteps retreating deeper inside.
"Joe! You didn't tell me you were coming," she said, almost breathless.
"I was worried," I explained, holding up the bag. "Brought you soup."
She hesitated before taking it. "Thanks... but I just need to rest. Can we see each other tomorrow?"
Something in her tone made my chest tighten. I searched her face, but she avoided my eyes.
"Bethy," I said quietly, "is everything okay?"
"Yes. I told you, I'm just tired," she insisted, forcing a smile. "Go, okay? I'll call you later."
The door closed before I could say more.
I stood there in the hallway, clutching the emptiness where her warmth used to be.
For the first time, I felt it-the distance. The invisible space growing between us, pulling her away no matter how tightly I held on.
And yet, I refused to believe it. I convinced myself it was stress, that exams and work and life were wearing her down. I told myself she still loved me, that what we had was too strong to be broken.
But late at night, lying awake in my dorm, I replayed every moment, every shift, every excuse. The doubts gnawed at me, whispering a truth I wasn't ready to face.
Love makes fools of us all.
And I, Joe Williams, was the biggest fool of all.