She noticed it first in the pauses.
Not the obvious ones—the gaps between messages, the rescheduled plans, the things that could be explained easily if someone asked. It was the smaller pauses that stayed with her. The half-second before he answered. The way he listened a little too carefully now, as if weighing each word before letting it settle.
She told herself it was nothing.
College had changed everything. Everyone said that. New schedules, new expectations, new versions of yourself forming quietly in the background. It would have been strange if nothing shifted at all.
Still, she noticed.
She noticed how he no longer reached for her hand first, even though he didn't pull away when she did. How he waited—always waited—as if checking whether the moment belonged to him before stepping into it. How his smiles came easily, but didn't always stay.
She wondered when he had learned to do that.
Her days had grown fuller.
Not heavier—just fuller. Meetings that ran longer than planned. Conversations that spilled past their original purpose. People who expected her to show up, who remembered her name, who asked what she thought and waited for the answer.
She liked that.
She also liked coming back to him afterward, carrying pieces of those days with her, setting them down gently between them. She liked talking, liked sharing, liked feeling that she didn't have to keep parts of herself separate anymore.
But sometimes, when she spoke, she sensed something quiet happening on his side.
Not withdrawal.
Adjustment.
As if he were making space she hadn't asked for.
She tried to tell herself that meant consideration. That it meant care. And it probably did. That was the problem. Care, when left unnamed, could be misread as distance just as easily as indifference.
There were moments when she wanted to ask him outright what he was thinking.
She never did.
Because every time the thought came, it felt too large for the moment it arrived in. Too serious for a walk back from campus. Too heavy for a shared meal. She didn't want to be the one who turned ease into tension by naming it too soon.
So she stayed quiet.
And silence, she was learning, was rarely empty.
One afternoon, she watched him from across the quad without meaning to.
He stood alone near the steps, phone in hand, not looking at it. Just waiting. She knew immediately that he was waiting for her, even though she hadn't said she would come.
The realization tightened something in her chest.
She waved, jogging over.
"You didn't have to wait," she said.
"I know," he replied.
And that was it. No explanation. No expectation voiced.
She wondered if he knew how visible his waiting was.
Later that week, she canceled plans.
Not carelessly. Not thoughtlessly. She sent the message as soon as she knew she'd be late, apologizing, explaining briefly. He replied quickly—too quickly—with reassurance.
It's fine.
She stared at the words longer than necessary.
She wished he had complained. Or teased her. Or said he'd waited. Anything that would have given her something to respond to.
Instead, the message closed the space.
When they met again, he smiled like nothing had happened.
That unsettled her more than if he hadn't.
She began to feel as though she was walking slightly ahead of him without realizing it. Turning around occasionally, checking that he was still there, only to find that he was—always—but at a careful distance, as if he didn't want to crowd her steps.
She didn't want distance.
She wanted alignment.
But alignment required asking for it.
And she wasn't sure how.
There was a night she almost said something.
They were sitting side by side, not touching, not deliberately apart either. The campus was quieter than usual, the air carrying the kind of stillness that made even small sounds noticeable.
She opened her mouth, closed it again.
He noticed.
"What?" he asked gently.
She shook her head. "Nothing."
He didn't push.
She wished he would.
Because part of her wanted him to interrupt her silence, to insist that what she hadn't said still mattered. Another part was relieved when he didn't, grateful that the moment passed without consequence.
She went home that night frustrated with herself.
With him.
With the fact that she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began anymore.
Over time, she started editing herself.
Not consciously. Subtly. She told fewer stories. Chose simpler examples. Left out the parts that might require reassurance, or explanation, or negotiation. She told herself she was being considerate.
Maybe she was just being cautious.
She noticed that he responded to this version of her easily. That he seemed calmer, steadier, when she kept things light. That realization sat uncomfortably with her.
She didn't want to be easier.
She wanted to be honest.
But honesty felt risky now.
Because honesty would require asking a question she wasn't sure she wanted answered.
One evening, as they walked together in silence, she thought about the girl she had been in high school. How she'd assumed closeness would take care of itself. How she'd believed that if something mattered, it would make itself known.
She knew better now.
Things didn't announce themselves.
They receded quietly, adjusting their shape until you didn't recognize what they used to be.
She slowed her steps slightly, watching to see if he would notice.
He did.
He always did.
But he matched her pace instead of asking why.
That hurt in a way she hadn't expected.
Because it meant he was paying attention.
And still choosing not to ask.
That night, lying in bed, she stared at the ceiling and thought about all the things she hadn't said lately. Not dramatic confessions. Not ultimatums. Just small truths.
I want you to ask where I'm going.
I want you to say you miss me when I'm not there.
I want to know if you're waiting because you want to, or because you don't know what else to do.
She turned onto her side, pulling the blanket closer.
She loved him.
That part felt clear.
What scared her was how easily love could become something quiet and careful and unchallenged—until one day it realized it had learned to survive without being spoken at all.
And she didn't know whether to protect that silence—
—or break it.