Nathan's alarm went off at 7:00 a.m. sharp.
His exam day.
He moved around the room, humming softly while searching for his pen, his tie, his notes.
He looked alive. Ready. Focused.
Everything I wasn't.
I sat on the bed, knees drawn to my chest, watching him move. He didn't notice how my hands trembled when I reached for the glass of water.
"You sure you'll be fine here alone?" he asked, slinging his bag across his shoulder.
"Yeah," I said, forcing a small smile. "I'll be fine."
He nodded, walked over, kissed the top of my head. "I'll be back soon, okay?"
And just like that, the door shut behind him — and silence returned.
The kind of silence that presses against your chest until you can't breathe.
I stared at the wall for a long time. Then at my phone.
Still no reply from Marcus.
No explanation.
Just the ghost of our last conversation — "I'll send it tomorrow, I promise."
That promise never came.
And now, exams had started without me.
My friends had stopped calling.
Everything I had worked for was slipping away, and I couldn't even scream.
I walked to the mirror. My reflection stared back, tired and hollow-eyed.
"Who are you now, Elena?" I whispered. "Who did you become?"
I tried distracting myself — cleaned the room, rearranged the books, opened Nathan's guitar case and strummed a few strings.
But every sound reminded me of something I'd lost.
The sound of control.
The sound of being sure of myself.
By afternoon, the air felt too heavy. I left the house, walked down to a small corner shop, bought a bottle of cheap drink.
Maybe if I got a little high, the noise in my head would slow down.
Maybe I'd stop replaying all the things I should've done differently.
The drink burned my throat, but it was better than silence.
I texted Nathan: "Are you done? I'm sad. I need you."
He replied almost instantly: "Done. I'm coming home now."
My chest ached at his response — because even in the middle of everything, he still cared.
When he arrived, I was already half asleep on the couch, the empty bottle lying on the floor.
"Elena," he whispered, shaking me gently.
I blinked up at him, dazed.
He crouched beside me, eyes soft but worried. "You texted me you were sad. What's wrong?"
My lips parted, but nothing came out.
Words gathered at the back of my throat like water behind a dam, desperate but trapped.
"I…"
The rest got lost.
He sighed, sat beside me, took my hand. "You can talk to me, you know? Whatever it is."
I nodded — a lie again.
Because how could I tell him that while he was busy fighting for his grades, I had already lost mine?
He stood up after a moment and walked into the kitchen. "You haven't eaten, have you?"
When I didn't answer, he smiled faintly. "That's a yes."
The sound of pots and pans filled the house. He cooked like he always did — quietly, intentionally, adding too much spice and singing under his breath.
I watched him from the doorway.
For a moment, it felt like everything was normal again.
Like I was the same girl who once waited outside his class with food packed in her bag and hope in her chest.
But I wasn't.
And this peace I was watching — it didn't belong to me anymore.
When he came back with the food, he smiled, handed me the plate. "Eat. You'll feel better."
I forced a spoonful into my mouth. It tasted like comfort I didn't deserve.
That night, he lay beside me, scrolling through his phone.
Every time he laughed softly at something, I turned to look at him, wondering if he could hear the guilt screaming inside me.
He caught me staring once. "What?" he said, smiling.
"Nothing," I murmured. "Just… thinking."
He reached out, brushed his fingers through my hair. "You think too much."
I wanted to say, if you knew what was in my head, you'd stop touching me.
But I didn't.
Instead, I closed my eyes and whispered,
"Goodnight, Nathan."
He smiled. "Goodnight, my peace."
The irony hit me like thunder.
I wasn't peace anymore — I was the storm right before it.