We saw each other before either of us was ready.No warning, no buildup, just a moment that came too soon and too quietly.
It was in the hallway after lunch, the crowd thinning, voices fading into background noise. Charlie turned the corner just as I stepped out from class, and for a split second, the world stilled. His eyes found mine, familiar, aching, and tired.
But this time, he stopped.
For a heartbeat, it looked like he was going to say something, his hand twitching slightly at his side, like he wanted to reach out, to close the distance between us. His lips parted, searching for words that might fix what we'd both let fall apart.
And maybe that should've been enough.Maybe I should've stopped too.
But I didn't.
I walked past him, steady, silent, pretending I didn't notice the way his breath caught or how his shoulders tensed as I moved by.Because if I stopped, if I looked at him too long, I knew everything I'd been trying to hold together would collapse.
Two people who once couldn't stand to be apart, now pretending not to see the ghost of what used to be.
As I brushed past, the air between us felt charged, sharp, not with anger, but with everything left unsaid. I could feel his gaze on my back, heavy and hesitant, until it wasn't there anymore.
And just like that, the space between us, the one we both said we needed, became something colder. Not freedom. Not peace. Just distance.
Maybe this was what breaking felt like, not a shatter, not a storm. Just the slow, silent passing of two hearts that once knew how to beat together.
The morning after felt like waking up in a world that had forgotten color.Everything looked the same, the walls, the sky, the streets, but none of it felt real anymore. Maybe because everything that used to feel solid between us had started to crumble.
Charlie didn't show up at school the next day. I told myself I didn't care. That I needed space to breathe. But every empty hallway, every seat he used to fill, pulled at something deep inside me.
People noticed, of course. They always do when silence replaces what used to be constant noise. Someone asked, "You and Charlie okay?" and I laughed it off, said, "Yeah, we're fine."But fine was a lie I couldn't even make myself believe.
By lunch, I couldn't take it anymore. I walked past our usual table, the one tucked by the window where the sunlight always seemed too bright, and headed for the far side of the courtyard. The air smelled like rain, sharp and heavy. Maybe the sky knew something I didn't want to admit.
When I finally saw him again, it wasn't the reunion I'd imagined in my head. No words, no smiles. Just Charlie walking out of the gym, bag slung over his shoulder, his face unreadable. His eyes brushed past me, like I was a stranger.
That one look hurt more than all our arguments combined.
He didn't stop. Didn't even hesitate.And something in me, something stubborn and proud, refused to call his name.
I let him walk away.
The thing about bonds is, they never break all at once. They fray, slowly, quietly. Every unspoken word, every halfhearted glance, every time you choose silence over truth, it's another thread snapping.
And as I stood there, watching him disappear into the crowd, I realized we weren't breaking.We were unraveling.
I didn't go looking for him after that.But the truth is, I didn't have to. His absence had a way of finding me, in the spaces where his laughter used to echo, in the empty stretch of hallway where we first met, even in the quiet moments between classes when the world felt too loud.
I told myself I was doing the right thing. That walking past him was strength, proof I was moving on, or at least trying to. But strength doesn't feel like this. It doesn't leave you hollow, replaying every second of a moment you swore you didn't care about.
The way he stopped.The way his lips almost formed my name.The way I couldn't bring myself to stop, to listen, to let him try.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about what might've happened if I had looked back. If maybe he would've smiled, or said something that made it all make sense again. But I didn't look back. And now that moment was gone, just another ghost in the long line of almost between us.
The next day, I saw him again, across the courtyard this time. He was with a few of his friends, laughing at something someone said, head tilted back, sunlight catching in his hair. It should've made me feel something like relief, knowing he was okay. But it didn't.
Because when he laughed, it wasn't the same. It was practiced, the kind of laugh you use when you're trying to prove you're fine to everyone except yourself.
Our eyes met for a heartbeat.He didn't look away first this time. I did.
And in that split second, I realized something cruel, maybe we weren't waiting for each other anymore. Maybe we were both waiting for the other to stop caring first.
The thought lodged somewhere deep inside me, heavy and unshakable.
So I smiled at someone nearby, forced a laugh at a joke I didn't hear, pretended not to notice the ache sitting quietly behind my ribs. Pretended not to care, the same way he did.
Because sometimes that's how love dies, not with a goodbye, not even with anger, but with two people pretending long enough that they almost believe it.
And maybe that's the saddest part of all.