Chapter 31 — Out of Sync
Arga almost arrived late that morning.
Not because he overslept.
He had been sitting on the edge of the bed for ten minutes, staring at the floor.
"Come on," he muttered. "Work."
The office felt the same as always. Too normal.
Arga sat down, turned on his computer, and opened the project right away. The timeline moved, audio dropped in, cut after cut clean and precise.
"Ga."
Arga looked up.
A coworker stood beside his desk, holding a flash drive. "Additional footage. Deadline moved up."
"How long?" Arga asked.
"Two hours."
Arga nodded. "Okay."
No small talk. No need.
Lunch came fast. Arga didn't eat with anyone. He stepped outside, bought a drink, and stood in the shade of the building. Hot, noisy, crowded.
His phone buzzed.
From her.
"You at the office today?"
Arga read it while standing.
"Yeah."
A few seconds passed.
"Oh."
Arga frowned.
"Oh what?"
Sent.
No reply.
"Why ask if it's just 'oh'…" he muttered.
He went back inside and finished his work without thinking too much. Time moved. Evening arrived.
Just before leaving, his phone lit up again.
Read.
No response.
Arga let out a short breath. Not angry. Just tired.
On the train, people stood close together. A woman complained quietly about her signal. Two high school kids laughed too loud. Life kept moving.
Arga stood still.
At his apartment, he tossed his bag onto the couch. Didn't change. Didn't sit down.
He grabbed his phone.
Typed.
"What's wrong with us?"
Read immediately.
"What do you mean?" she replied.
Arga rubbed his face.
"Why does every conversation feel like we're waiting for our turn to be tired?"
A few seconds passed.
"You're being dramatic."
The sentence was casual. Short.
And somehow, it hit harder than anything else.
"Dramatic," Arga chuckled softly. "Okay."
"Don't start," she replied quickly. "I'm not in the mood to fight."
"I'm not fighting," Arga typed. "I'm just asking."
"I'm exhausted today, Ga."
"I know."
"You know, but you still bring it up."
Arga stopped typing.
For a long time.
Then he sent one line.
"Okay. We'll talk later."
"When is later?"
The reply came fast.
Arga stared at the screen.
Then locked his phone.
"Later," he said quietly. "Like always."
That night, Arga sat on the floor of his room, back against the bed. His laptop was open, but he wasn't working.
He typed one sentence into his notes.
"We're not fighting. We're just tired of waiting for each other."
He closed the laptop.
What he felt wasn't sadness.
It was clarity.
That two people could still be together…
and yet no longer move at the same pace.