I didn't notice the silence at first.
Or maybe I did, and chose a kinder name for it. Calm. Space. Maturity. Words that sounded reasonable when arranged properly—words that suggested growth rather than loss.
I told myself we were doing well.
We still met. Still talked. Still walked the same paths together when our schedules allowed. She still smiled when she saw me. Still leaned in when she laughed. Nothing had ended.
That mattered.
So when conversations grew shorter, I adjusted. When plans shifted, I accepted it without question. I learned to say it's fine before she finished apologizing, learned to make room without being asked.
I thought that was what care looked like now.
The first consequence arrived disguised as relief.
One evening, she canceled again—politely, early, with an explanation that made sense. I replied immediately, telling her not to worry, that I'd catch up on some reading instead.
She sent back a thumbs-up.
Just that.
I stared at the screen longer than necessary, waiting for something else to follow. It didn't.
I told myself I was glad she didn't feel guilty.
That was good, right?
I went to the library anyway.
I sat at our usual table, the one by the window, and opened a book I'd already read once. Outside, students passed in small groups, laughter drifting in through the glass. I read the same paragraph three times without absorbing it.
It occurred to me then that she hadn't asked what I'd do instead.
The thought felt petty the moment it appeared.
So I pushed it aside.
We met the next day between classes.
She smiled easily, like nothing had happened. Like everything was continuing exactly as it should.
"Sorry about yesterday," she said, adjusting the strap of her bag.
"It's okay," I replied. "I figured you'd be busy."
She nodded, relieved.
"That's good," she said. "I didn't want you waiting around."
I smiled back.
"I wasn't."
The lie surprised me with how smoothly it came out.
We walked together for a while, talking about nothing that required attention. I noticed how carefully she chose her words now, how she paused slightly before answering questions that used to come easily.
I told myself I was imagining it.
That afternoon, I misread her restraint for the first time.
We were sitting outside, backs against the low wall near one of the quieter buildings. The air was cool enough to stay. Comfortable enough to linger.
She stared out at the open space in front of us, quiet.
"You're thinking," I said.
She smiled faintly. "Am I that obvious?"
"Only to me."
She didn't respond. Instead, she folded her hands together in her lap.
"There's something I've been meaning to tell you," she said.
The words landed heavier than they should have.
I waited.
She hesitated. Long enough for me to feel the weight of it pressing against my chest.
Then she shook her head. "Never mind."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"It's okay," I said quickly. "You don't have to force it."
She looked at me then—really looked—as if deciding whether that was reassurance or dismissal.
"Yeah," she said. "I know."
We sat in silence after that.
I thought I'd done the right thing.
I thought I'd protected her from pressure, from having to explain something she wasn't ready to say. I thought restraint was kindness.
What I didn't see was how my acceptance closed the door she had been standing in front of.
The real miss happened a week later.
We'd planned to meet after her meeting ended. Nothing elaborate. Just dinner somewhere nearby. I arrived early out of habit, leaning against the railing, watching the light fade.
Time passed.
When she finally appeared, she looked distracted, her mind still somewhere else.
"I'm sorry," she said. "It ran late."
"It's fine," I replied automatically.
She stopped walking.
"Is it?" she asked.
The question caught me off guard.
"Yes," I said. "Why wouldn't it be?"
She studied my face, searching for something.
"I just thought—" She stopped herself. "Never mind."
We walked the rest of the way in silence.
Over dinner, she barely touched her food. I noticed, but didn't comment. I talked instead—about classes, about nothing important, about anything that would keep the space filled.
"You don't have to entertain me," she said quietly.
"I'm not."
She set her chopsticks down. "Then what are you doing?"
I hesitated.
"I thought you were tired," I said. "I didn't want to add to it."
Her expression softened—and hardened at the same time.
"You always do that," she said.
"Do what?"
"Decide what I need without asking," she replied. "Then disappear into it."
"I'm not disappearing," I said.
She looked at me, a tired smile forming. "You are. Just quietly."
That was when it finally reached me.
I had learned how to stay without insisting on being present. How to be near without taking up space. I thought that was love.
But silence wasn't neutral.
It carried meaning whether I intended it to or not.
We walked home together afterward, closer than before but less connected. At the corner where we usually parted, she stopped.
"I'm going to head back," she said.
"Okay."
She hesitated, then leaned forward, resting her forehead briefly against my shoulder.
"I wish you'd tell me when something bothers you," she said.
"I don't want to make things harder."
She pulled back, meeting my eyes. "You don't. You just make them unclear."
She walked away before I could respond.
That night, lying in bed, I replayed every moment where I had chosen silence because it felt safer than asking.
I had believed that if I didn't demand space, I wouldn't lose it.
I hadn't realized that by saying nothing, I was slowly teaching us how to exist without clarity at all.