Jay had perfected the art of saying the wrong thing.
Not because he wanted to hurt Miku—but because distance was the only language he trusted himself to speak fluently. When emotions edged too close to honesty, he sharpened his tone, wrapped his words in indifference, and stepped back before anyone could see what he was risking.
"Don't take this seriously," he said one afternoon, eyes fixed on the street ahead."This is just… time passing."
Miku felt the sting, but she didn't flinch.
"Everything is just time passing," she replied quietly. "That doesn't make it meaningless."
Jay didn't answer.
He never answered when the truth was too close.
Some days, his words cut deeper than he intended.
"You should stop trying.""I'm not what you think I am.""This won't last."
Each sentence was meant as a warning.
Each one landed like rejection.
Yet when Miku stepped back—when she allowed space instead of closeness—Jay noticed immediately. His gaze lingered. His silences grew restless. His calm began to crack.
He wanted her near.
He just didn't know how to ask without opening old wounds.
Miku learned to read between his sentences.
Leave me alone meant I'm afraid.Don't wait for me meant I don't know how to stay.This won't last meant I don't trust myself not to lose you.
Still, understanding didn't erase the ache.
There were nights when Miku lay awake wondering if love was supposed to feel like restraint—like holding something precious without being allowed to touch it.
She never questioned whether Jay cared.
She questioned whether care was enough.
One evening, after another conversation that ended too quickly, she stopped him.
"Do you ever say things you don't mean," she asked, "just to keep people at a distance?"
Jay froze.
For a moment, the armor slipped.
"Yes," he admitted. "All the time."
Miku nodded, as if she had always known.
"Then I'll listen to what you don't say," she whispered."And I'll decide how long I can."
Jay looked at her then—not with fear, but with something dangerously close to hope.
That night, Jay realized something he had been avoiding:
Miku wasn't staying because she was weak.
She was staying because she was strong.
And one day, if he wasn't careful, his silence would cost him the one person who had learned to understand it.