I began measuring time by the things that were no longer happening.
He no longer came as early as he used to.
He no longer told me everything.
He no longer seemed excited to share every little detail about his day.
And when he was with me, his mind sometimes seemed somewhere else.
I noticed his phone more than I wanted to.
Whenever it rang, his eyes went straight to the screen.
Sometimes he would turn it over.
Sometimes he would step away.
Sometimes he would read a message and smile before putting the phone down.
I tried not to notice.
But how do you stop noticing something that is happening directly in front of you?
One afternoon, I asked him,
"Is Alberta still disturbing you?"
He looked at me.
"Yes."
"Then why haven't you blocked her?"
He sighed.
"I already told you."
"I know what you told me."
"Then why do you keep asking?"
"Because nothing has changed."
He became quiet.
I felt my voice becoming softer.
"Actually, something has changed."
"What?"
"You."
He looked at me.
"How?"
"You don't talk to me the way you used to."
He didn't answer.
"You don't tell me things anymore."
"That's not true."
"It is."
He looked away.
I continued.
"Before, you would tell me everything Alberta said."
"Because it wasn't important."
I stared at him.
"That doesn't make sense."
"What doesn't?"
"If it wasn't important, why did you used to tell me?"
He had no immediate answer.
I looked down.
"I don't want to fight with you."
"I'm not fighting with you."
"I know. But I'm scared."
He looked at me.
"Of what?"
"Losing you."
The words came out before I could stop them.
He became silent.
I hated admitting that.
I didn't want him to know how vulnerable I had become.
But I was.
I had watched people leave before.
I knew what it felt like when someone's love slowly became distance.
I didn't want to experience it again.
He reached for my hand.
"You're not losing me."
I looked at him.
"Then show me."
He squeezed my hand.
"I love you."
I wanted those words to be enough.
For a while, they were.
Then reality returned.
Because love isn't only what someone says.
Sometimes, it's what their actions make you feel.
And lately, his actions were making me feel forgotten.
One evening, he arrived later than usual.
I asked where he had been.
"At school."
"Doing what?"
"Talking to some teachers."
"Alberta too?"
He looked at me.
"Why does it matter?"
That question hurt.
"It matters because I'm asking."
He sighed.
"I don't want to talk about her every day."
"I don't either."
"Then stop bringing her up."
I stared at him.
"I wouldn't bring her up if she wasn't constantly appearing in our lives."
He walked away.
I sat there alone.
I didn't want another argument.
I wanted peace.
But peace was becoming difficult when I was constantly wondering what was happening behind my back.
I started thinking about the day Alberta had become angry because James skipped the excursion to spend time with me.
At the time, I had felt secretly pleased.
I had thought, He chose me.
But now I wondered whether the situation was more complicated.
Why did Alberta feel entitled to be angry about his decision?
Why did James seem to care about her reaction?
Why did he tell me about it?
Why was their relationship becoming something that occupied so much space in our lives?
I didn't know.
Then I noticed something else.
He began hiding his messages.
Not openly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for me to notice.
If his phone was beside him and a message arrived, he would sometimes pick it up immediately.
If I walked into the room, the screen would disappear.
If I asked who had texted, he would say,
"Someone from school."
Someone.
Not Alberta.
Not a teacher.
Not a colleague.
Just someone.
I knew what that meant.
He didn't want to tell me.
That hurt.
One day, I finally asked him,
"Why are you hiding your messages?"
"I'm not."
"You are."
"No."
"You are."
He looked irritated.
"Do you want to check my phone?"
I didn't answer.
Because that wasn't what I wanted.
I didn't want to become a detective in my own relationship.
I wanted him to volunteer the truth.
I wanted him to feel safe enough to tell me.
I wanted transparency without having to demand it.
So I said,
"No."
He looked surprised.
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is that I shouldn't have to ask."
Silence.
That was all I got.
Silence.
And somehow, silence was louder than any explanation.
That night, I cried quietly.
Not because I knew he had betrayed me.
I didn't.
I cried because I could feel the distance.
And sometimes distance is frightening because you don't know whether someone is coming back.
I kept telling myself that maybe I was overthinking.
Maybe work was stressful.
Maybe he was tired.
Maybe Alberta really was just a colleague who didn't understand boundaries.
Maybe there was nothing between them.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe.
But my heart was tired of living on maybe.
I wanted certainty.
I wanted the man I loved to look at me and make me feel secure again.
Instead, I was beginning to feel like I was competing with someone who wasn't even supposed to be part of our relationship.
And I knew I couldn't live that way forever.
Something had to change.
Either he would put boundaries in place…
or I would have to decide what boundaries I needed for myself.