The week after the argument stretched out like a gray horizon neither of them could cross.
April and Brandy still saw each other, but their laughter no longer flowed as easily. The silences were longer, heavier, as if every word unspoken hovered in the air between them, thick enough to choke.
They were together, but the distance had never felt greater.
April's Side
April sat at her desk late one night, the glow of her laptop screen painting her face in pale light. She had read the offer letter a dozen times now, yet the words still carried the same weight: Six months abroad. Career advancement. Dreams within reach.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Brandy. Just three words: Good night, love.
She stared at the screen, her throat tightening. Once, his good-night texts had filled her with warmth. Now, guilt twisted them into daggers.
She wanted to answer with something more—I love you, don't worry, I'm not leaving. But her fingers hovered over the keyboard, paralyzed. Because wasn't that a lie? She was considering leaving, wasn't she?
She closed the laptop, burying her face in her hands.
For years, she had promised herself she wouldn't let love make her small. She had watched her mother sacrifice dreams for family, had seen friends settle into safe, quiet lives they once swore they'd escape. April wanted more. She wanted to see the world, to chase opportunities others only fantasized about.
But then there was Brandy. His smile, his laugh, the way his hand fit perfectly in hers. The way he looked at her like she was his anchor in a storm.
She pressed a hand to her chest, where her heart ached with the impossible pull of both directions.
What kind of woman would she be if she chose ambition over love?
And what kind of woman would she be if she let go of her dream for a man—even if he was the man?
Brandy's Side
Meanwhile, Brandy sat in his apartment, the lights dim, a half-empty beer on the table. The television flickered in the background, muted, but he wasn't watching. His mind was too full.
He thought of April—her laughter, her warmth, her touch—and his chest tightened. He thought of that night in the park, the way her voice trembled when she admitted the truth.
He wanted to be happy for her. He wanted to tell her to chase her dreams. But deep down, an ugly fear gnawed at him: that once she left, she would never come back.
It wasn't her fault. It was his. His past had built walls inside him that no love could fully tear down.
He remembered being nine years old, watching his father pack a suitcase, his mother crying quietly in the kitchen. His father's last words echoed in his head still: "Don't wait for me."
He had waited anyway. Weeks, months, years. And his father had never returned.
So when Brandy loved now, he loved with a desperate, almost reckless intensity, terrified of abandonment, terrified of being left behind again.
And April—his April—had one foot already out the door.
Brandy set down the beer, burying his face in his hands. He hated himself for it—for being so afraid, so insecure. But he couldn't help it. The thought of losing her was unbearable.
And worse still, he couldn't bring himself to say it. To tell her just how deep his fear ran. Because what if the weight of his need only pushed her further away?
Missed Connections
They met for dinner the next night, sitting across from each other at their favorite little Italian restaurant. The air smelled of garlic and wine, but neither could taste much of anything.
April wanted to tell him about the anxiety gnawing her insides raw. She wanted to confess that she hadn't slept in days, that her chest ached with indecision.
Brandy wanted to tell her about his father, about the hole in his chest that had never closed. He wanted her to understand that it wasn't the job offer itself that terrified him—it was the shadow of goodbye that came with it.
But both of them stayed silent.
Their conversation circled safe topics—the weather, mutual friends, the food on their plates. Neither dared touch the truth, as though speaking it would make it real.
When Brandy walked her home that night, their hands brushed, but neither reached for the other. And that absence felt like a scream neither of them could voice.
April's Journal
Back in her apartment, April opened her journal, the one she had kept since college.
I love him, she wrote in looping, shaky script. More than I thought possible. But I'm so afraid. Afraid of losing myself if I stay, afraid of losing him if I go. What if love and dreams can't coexist? What if choosing one means destroying the other?
Tears blurred the ink, turning her words into smudges. She closed the book quickly, as though hiding the thoughts might make them less true.
Brandy's Night
Brandy dreamed of her that night. In the dream, April stood at a train platform, suitcase in hand, waving at him with tears in her eyes.
He tried to run after her, but his feet felt like stone. The train doors closed, and through the window, he saw her mouth form the words: Don't say goodbye.
He woke with a gasp, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. The room was silent, empty.
Brandy pressed a hand to his face, trembling. It was just a dream. Just a dream.
But his heart whispered otherwise.
A Fragile Day
The weekend arrived, and April invited Brandy for a walk by the river, the same place where their love had once blossomed in quiet simplicity.
The day was bright, the water glittering with sunlight. People laughed around them, couples strolled hand in hand. Yet for April and Brandy, the brightness only made their shadows feel sharper.
They walked side by side, not touching.
"Beautiful day," April said softly.
"Yeah," Brandy answered. His voice was flat.
She wanted to reach for him, but fear froze her hand. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but pride sealed his lips.
Instead, they walked on, two souls standing inches apart but worlds away.
April's Breaking Point
That night, alone in her apartment, April broke down. She pressed her face into her pillow, sobs shaking her chest.
She loved him. She loved him so much it hurt. But she couldn't breathe in this silence anymore.
She picked up her phone, thumb hovering over his name, ready to call. To spill everything, to beg him to talk to her.
But she froze. What if he didn't answer? What if he couldn't give her the reassurance she needed?
Her thumb slid away, and she set the phone down with trembling hands.
Brandy's Confession to No One
Across the city, Brandy sat on his balcony, a cigarette between his fingers, though he rarely smoked. The night air was cool, the stars distant.
He whispered into the darkness, as though April could hear him across the miles.
"I'm scared," he said hoarsely. "I'm scared you'll leave, and I won't know how to live without you. I want to be strong, I want to support you, but all I feel is this fear."
The night swallowed his words. No one answered.
He closed his eyes, hating himself for the weakness, for the truth he couldn't tell her.
Two Worlds Apart
And so, April and Brandy drifted, orbiting each other like two stars caught in different gravities.
Each night, they lay in their separate beds, reaching for phones they didn't call, rehearsing words they never said.
Each morning, they put on smiles that didn't reach their eyes, pretending things were fine, when inside both were crumbling.
They loved each other desperately. And yet, the silence between them was slowly devouring that love.
April whispered into her pillow, "Please, Brandy, don't let me go."
Brandy whispered into the night, "Please, April, don't leave me."
And neither heard the other.