Jay's voice echoed through the living room again, sharp and full of frustration, but this time, there was no reply.
"Keifer! Are you even listening?" she snapped, pacing.
Nothing.
Her words bounced off the walls and hit only emptiness.
She stopped, heart racing, and turned to see him sitting on the couch, still as a statue, staring at the floor.
"Keifer… don't do this," she said, softer now, a twinge of worry threading her anger.
Still nothing.
Days passed like this. Every fight she picked, every jab she threw, he met with silence. Not a word. Not a sigh. Not even a defensive glance.
Jay noticed the small changes first: he stopped arguing, stopped correcting her, stopped laughing at the little things. The way he always used to patiently explain himself, the way he teased her gently, the way he called her at random during the day… all gone.
At first, she thought it was a game. "Fine," she muttered to herself. "I'll win this. I'll make him talk."
But the more she shouted, the more she tried, the more his silence grew. He didn't yell back. He didn't storm out. He simply… didn't respond.
And slowly, that silence began to eat at her.
She tried everything — sending texts, leaving notes, even baking his favorite meals — but he didn't even glance at them. He barely moved around the house. He didn't complain, didn't ask, didn't acknowledge her existence.
Jay's frustration twisted into panic. Her chest felt tight. Her stomach knotted. And the thing she hated admitting the most… was that she missed him more with every passing hour of his quiet.
She realized, piece by piece, that all the anger, all the fights, were useless. The fire she thought would ignite passion instead burned her alone.
And in that suffocating silence, Jay started to understand something terrifying: she had never truly known what it meant to be without Keifer — not until now.