The days that followed were strange.
Nathan wasn't cold — just quieter. More careful with his words.
He smiled, but it never reached his eyes. He touched me, but it felt rehearsed, like he was reminding himself how to love.
And I, in my confusion, started doubting every silence between us.
Was it love growing softer? Or fear growing louder?
Every time his phone lit up, I found myself holding my breath.
Every time he said, "I'll call you back," my heart whispered, "will you?"
I didn't want to become the kind of woman who begged for attention,
so I started matching his quiet.
Two people playing the same game — waiting for the other to reach first.
Meanwhile, Marcus didn't stop.
He sent more messages — not angry ones this time, just guilt-wrapped words that smelled like nostalgia.
He knew exactly which version of me to speak to —
the one that once felt invisible, the one that still believed being chosen was the same thing as being loved.
"Remember when nobody else cared about you? When I was all you had?" he wrote once.
And for a second, I almost replied.
Because part of me missed the familiarity of pain —
how it always knew my name, how it never forgot where I lived.
But I didn't reply.
Instead, I cried.
Because silence can sometimes be louder than any words you could ever say.
One night, I broke.
I called Nathan, voice trembling. "Can we talk?"
He came over, no questions asked.
We sat in the dim light of the living room, two people who loved each other but didn't know how to say the right things anymore.
The air between us was heavy — thick with things unsaid.
His eyes searched mine like they were trying to remember the girl he fell for, and I looked back, trying to find the boy who used to make me laugh at 2 a.m.
"I don't want Marcus between us," I said finally, my voice cracking halfway through.
Nathan exhaled. Long. Tired. "Then tell me the truth, Elena. Why does he still have this much power over you?"
Tears burned my eyes.
Because I didn't know how to explain it without sounding weak.
"Because he was there when no one else was," I whispered.
"Because part of me still feels like I owe him for believing in me when I didn't even believe in myself."
He looked at me — not with anger, but with the kind of hurt that comes when you realize love isn't enough to erase someone's ghosts.
Nathan nodded slowly. "I get that. I really do. But if you keep holding on to your past out of guilt, you'll lose everything that's trying to heal you."
His voice broke near the end — not in anger, but pain.
And for a second, I saw it — the little boy inside the man who had once been broken too.
Maybe that's what scared him most — seeing my cracks, knowing they looked too much like his own.
I reached for his hand, but he didn't take it immediately.
He stared at it for a long second before finally letting his fingers fall into mine.
It wasn't passion. It wasn't fireworks.
It was tired love — the kind that aches quietly and still chooses to stay.
That night, I realized something cruel:
You can love someone deeply and still not know how to love them right.
Because love, by itself, isn't enough.
It needs honesty, courage, and the willingness to face the parts of each other you don't understand.
When he left that night, he kissed my forehead instead of my lips.
And somehow, that hurt more than a goodbye.
I watched him walk away, the door closing softly behind him.
And in that quiet, I whispered to myself —
"I'm trying. I swear I'm trying."
But maybe trying isn't always enough when two hearts are learning how to speak the same language again.