The thing about breaking points is that they don't always arrive with noise.
Sometimes, they come softly—hidden in ordinary days, tucked inside moments that are supposed to mean nothing.
Issa realized she was close to hers on a Thursday afternoon, during chemistry class, when she laughed a little too late at something Max said. The sound felt wrong in her ears, hollow and rehearsed. She glanced at him instinctively, but his attention was already elsewhere—tilted toward Emily, who sat two seats away, her ponytail swinging as she leaned in.
"Can you believe this lab?" Max said, half-turning toward Issa, half toward Emily. "I swear, I'm going to set something on fire."
Emily laughed. "Please don't. I like my eyebrows."
Issa smiled because smiling was automatic now. It took no effort. That scared her.
Later that day, Issa sat in the library, sunlight slanting through tall windows and dust motes floating lazily in the air. Her notebook lay open, blank. For once, she didn't know what to write.
Max slid into the chair across from her without asking. "Hey. You look tired."
"I'm fine," Issa said quickly.
He studied her for a moment. "You sure?"
She nodded. "Just school stuff."
He accepted that easily. Too easily.
"Emily and I are going to the game tomorrow," he said. "You coming?"
The invitation felt like a test she didn't remember signing up for.
"Maybe," she said.
"You always say that," he laughed. "You should come. It'll be fun."
Fun. The word echoed uncomfortably.
---
She did go to the game.
The bleachers were packed, the air cold enough to bite. Issa sat two rows behind Max and Emily, watching as he offered his jacket when Emily shivered. He didn't notice Issa rubbing her hands together, didn't see her look away when he laced his fingers with someone else's.
When the crowd cheered, Issa clapped too, even though her chest felt tight.
She left early.
---
That night, the letter came out angry.
Max,
I don't know when loving you started to feel like erasing myself. I don't know when being your safe place stopped being enough.
She pressed hard enough that the pen tore the page.
I am tired of being the girl who understands. I am tired of being invisible in a story I helped write.
Her tears blurred the ink. She didn't wipe them away.
---
The next morning, Max caught up to her by the lockers.
"Hey," he said, breathless. "You left early last night. Everything okay?"
Issa hesitated. This was it—the moment she had imagined and feared.
"I just… wasn't feeling it," she said.
He frowned slightly. "Did I do something?"
The question hit harder than she expected.
"No," she said, too quickly. "You didn't."
Because how could she explain that he had done nothing—and that was the problem?
The breaking point arrived later, during lunch.
Emily wasn't there. Max slid into Issa's seat like old times, smiling easy and familiar.
"God, I needed this," he said. "Everything feels complicated lately."
Issa stared at her tray. "Does it?"
"Yeah. Emily's been distant. I don't know." He looked at her then, really looked at her. "You get it, right?"
Something inside Issa finally gave way.
"I don't think I do," she said quietly.
Max blinked. "What?"
"I don't get how you only come to me when things fall apart," she continued, voice shaking despite her efforts. "I don't get how I'm always here for you, but somehow never enough."
The cafeteria noise faded around them.
"Issa—"
"I know you didn't mean to hurt me," she said, standing up, tears threatening to spill. "But you did."
She walked away before he could respond.
That night, Issa wrote the shortest letter yet.
Max,
I can't keep loving you like this. I'm breaking quietly, and I don't think you hear it.
She closed the notebook with trembling hands.
For the first time, she didn't know if she would write again.
And that scared her more than loving him ever had.