She started pulling away, gently. Fewer texts. Longer silences. I told myself not to mind, that people get busy, that this was never labeled anyway. But you always notice when someone begins to unlearn you.
We met one last time. I knew it might be the last, though nothing was said. We walked by the riverside, the sky heavy with unfallen rain. She held my hand this time — not loosely, but tightly, like it was the only thing tethering her to now.
"I don't know how to do this," she said.
I said nothing. Because I didn't either.
We sat in silence until the sky gave up and let the rain fall. She didn't run this time. Neither did I. When we finally stood, she kissed me — soft, slow, and full of unsaid things.
Then she said, "Take care of your heart. I liked it."
That was the last time I saw her.