It didn't happen on an important day.
That was the cruel part.
No exams. No deadlines. No moment that could later be blamed for what followed. It was an ordinary evening, unremarkable in every practical way. The kind of day that should have passed unnoticed.
That was why it couldn't be undone.
We met by chance near the station.
I hadn't planned to be there. I'd stayed later than usual on campus, walking aimlessly afterward, trying to shake the feeling that I'd spent the entire day waiting for something without knowing what it was. When I saw her across the street, standing near the crossing with her phone pressed to her ear, I almost kept walking.
Almost.
She noticed me first.
Her expression shifted—surprise, then hesitation, then relief. She ended the call quickly and crossed over, weaving through people like she always did, fast and purposeful.
"Hey," she said. "I didn't know you'd be here."
"Neither did I."
She smiled faintly. "Are you heading home?"
"Yeah."
"Me too."
The coincidence felt forced, like something we'd both been pretending not to notice lately.
We walked side by side toward the platform. Trains passed through the station without stopping long enough to matter. The crossing bell rang and fell silent again.
She spoke first.
"I've been meaning to talk to you," she said.
The words landed harder than they should have.
"About what?"
She hesitated, glancing around like she was checking whether this was the right place.
"Do you have time?" she asked.
I laughed once, short and sharp, before I could stop myself.
"That's kind of the problem, isn't it?"
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
I stopped walking.
People moved around us, the station continuing its rhythm without regard for what was about to happen. She stopped too, turning to face me fully now.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
I looked at her.
Really looked.
At the person who had once fit so naturally into my days that I'd never questioned it. At the person I'd been rearranging myself around without realizing how much space I'd given up.
"I don't know how to say this without sounding unreasonable," I said.
"Try."
The word wasn't gentle.
"I feel like I'm always waiting," I said. "And you don't even realize it."
Her expression changed instantly.
"That's not fair."
"I know it isn't," I replied. "But it's true."
She crossed her arms, not defensively—bracing.
"I've been busy," she said. "You know that."
"I do," I said. "And I keep telling myself it's fine. Every time. But at some point, it stopped feeling like patience and started feeling like… permission."
"Permission for what?"
"For me to disappear quietly," I said. "So you don't have to deal with it."
She shook her head. "That's not what I'm doing."
"Then why does it feel like every time I ask for time, I'm asking for too much?"
Her voice rose, just slightly.
"Because you never say what you want," she said. "You just sit there and expect me to notice."
"I did ask," I said. "And it went nowhere."
"Because I can't drop everything every time you feel unsure," she shot back.
"I'm not asking you to drop everything."
"Then what are you asking?" she demanded.
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
That silence—that familiar, cursed silence—stretched between us.
She laughed then.
Not kindly. Not cruelly.
Just tired.
"See?" she said. "This. This is what I mean. You never actually say it. You just look at me like I'm supposed to read your mind."
"I didn't want to pressure you."
"And I didn't want to feel like I was abandoning you every time I chose something else," she said. "But here we are."
People were starting to glance at us now. I didn't care.
"I made room for you," I said. "Every time. I just didn't announce it."
"That's the problem!" she said sharply. "You don't announce anything. You disappear into yourself and call it kindness."
"Because every time I try to step forward," I said, my voice breaking despite myself, "I feel like I'm interrupting your life."
She went quiet at that.
Her anger didn't disappear—but something underneath it surfaced.
"I never asked you to shrink," she said.
"No," I replied. "You didn't have to."
The words hung there, heavy and irreversible.
She looked away, jaw tight.
"I thought you understood," she said softly. "I thought you knew that I was choosing things because I finally could—not because I wanted less of you."
"I know," I said. "That's what makes this worse."
A train roared past the platform, loud enough to swallow the next few seconds whole. When the sound faded, neither of us spoke immediately.
Then she said it.
"Do you know what it feels like?" she asked. "To finally feel like you're moving forward—and realize the person you love is standing still behind you, waiting?"
The word love landed like a blow.
"I wasn't standing still," I said. "I was trying to walk with you."
"Then why does it feel like I'm dragging you every time?" she asked.
"I never asked you to slow down," I said. "I just wanted to know where we were going."
She exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair.
"I can't keep reassuring you," she said. "I can't keep explaining myself."
"And I can't keep pretending I'm fine when I'm not," I replied.
We stood there, breathing hard, the world continuing unbothered around us.
"So what now?" she asked.
The question terrified me.
Because for the first time, I didn't have a careful answer ready.
"I don't know," I said.
She nodded slowly, like she'd expected that.
"I don't either."
Another train approached. Doors opened. People rushed forward.
"This is my train," she said.
I nodded.
She stepped closer, hesitation flickering across her face.
"I didn't want it to come out like this," she said.
"Neither did I."
She looked at me for a long moment, like she was memorizing something she wasn't sure she'd see the same way again.
Then she turned and boarded the train.
I stood there as the doors closed, as the train pulled away, as the platform emptied around me.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I didn't check it.
For the first time, the silence didn't feel like something we were choosing.
It felt like something that had been forced open.
And as I walked home alone, I realized that whatever we had been protecting by not speaking had already been damaged long before tonight.
All we had done was finally stop pretending otherwise.