It's 2:08 a.m.
The fan creaks every third turn. I've started counting it like it matters. Like if I listen hard enough, something might break the silence.
But silence doesn't break. It stretches.
My phone is face down beside me. The screen lit up once. Not him.
I sent a "gn" earlier. Just that. Simple. Not a trap. Not a test. Just… a whisper of presence. A quiet, gentle letting go for the night.
It's fine that he didn't reply. I tell myself that. Over and over, like a chant.
He doesn't owe me every second. I'm not that kind of person. I don't want to be.
But somewhere between 1:00 and now, something in me started to ache.
And now I'm here.
Wrapped in a blanket that smells like detergent and memory. My eyes wide open, but not really seeing anything. Just… feeling.
The kind of feeling that lives deep in your chest.
The kind that doesn't have a name, only weight.
I don't know when exactly it started. This hum in my mind that keeps whispering:
Maybe he wants something lighter.
Maybe he misses when I smiled more, laughed more, didn't pause before every sentence like I'm trying to get it right.
Maybe he just wants happy.
And I'm not that anymore.
I'm not loud with joy these days. I've grown softer. Quieter. Not because I'm sad all the time—but because I carry things. Thoughts that don't fit into casual conversations. Grief that shows up in silence. Guilt that no one asked me to hold.
Sometimes I think I'm easier to love when I pretend nothing hurts.
But pretending is exhausting.
And I'm tired.
Maybe Nigel can feel that, even when I don't say it out loud.
Maybe he's slowly slipping away—not because he doesn't care—but because it's just easier.
People leave quietly, sometimes.
Without fights. Without slamming doors.
Just less texts. Fewer questions. Lighter touch.
And I wonder if I'm imagining that.
I always wonder if I'm imagining it.
I hate that I even have to ask myself these questions.
That I can't trust my own experience unless someone else confirms it.
I used to be so sure.
Of myself. Of him. Of us.
But now I lie awake at 2:30 a.m., wondering if I've become too much. Or not enough. Or just… different.....just..... difficult.
And if maybe that difference is the problem.
I think back to the first time we talked. The way my voice calmed, not out of infatuation, but because it had been so long since someone listened that closely. He looked at me like I mattered. Like the way I thought mattered. Not just my smile, or the way I laughed, or how I moved my hands while talking—but the stuff inside. The crazy, and the sweet, too.
I never asked him to fix me.
I just wanted to be understood.
But now—now I feel like a paragraph he's read too many times. Like my thoughts loop too often, like my silences last too long. Like maybe he doesn't know what to say anymore.
Maybe I don't either.
I don't want to ask him if everything's okay.
I don't want to become that girl—the one who needs constant reassurance.
I want to trust the way he held me. The way he stayed, even when I couldn't find the words.
But I also can't stop wondering:
What if it's fading?
What if I am?
It's not about needing him to prove anything.
It's about needing to know I haven't imagined this whole thing.
That I haven't built a home in someone who's already halfway out the door.
The blanket's warm, but my hands are cold.
I haven't cried.
I wish I could.
Crying feels like proof. Like release. Like something real.
But this isn't sadness that spills. It's sadness that sits. The kind that clings to the walls of your throat and doesn't move. The kind that just… exists. Uninvited. Unspoken.
Maybe he still loves me.
Maybe he just doesn't know how to love this version of me.
The version that's quiet. Heavy. Sometimes distant. Sometimes too close.
The version that's trying. Still trying. Always trying.
I'm not who I was almost an year ago.
But I'm not broken.
Just… softer. More deliberate. Still figuring things out.
Maybe that scares him.
Or maybe it doesn't.
Maybe he's asleep right now, peacefully, not thinking about any of this.
And maybe that's the real ache.
That I'm carrying all of this alone,and overthinking about it all while he doesn't know what's in my head.
It's 3:41 a.m.
The fan keeps spinning. The silence doesn't end.
But something in me loosens.
Not peace. Not quite.
But the edge of panic has rounded a little.
The maybe's are still there, but softer. Less sharp. Less cruel.
Maybe he still chooses me.
Maybe I still choose myself.
Maybe both can be true.
Maybe he still love me
Maybe he does care about me
Maybe he is just busy .
Maybe....