The morning of their anniversary felt quieter than it should have.
Althea woke before her alarm, staring at the faint glow filtering through her curtains. For a long moment, she stayed still, her hands pressed against her chest, feeling the steady thump of her heartbeat. Today's the day, she told herself. A day that used to be bright with certainty, now clouded with doubt.
She sat up slowly, her feet brushing the cool floor. The calendar on her desk caught her eye — the tiny red heart she had drawn weeks ago. She traced the outline with her finger, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles. Two years. Two years since Ethan had leaned against the library wall, stumbling over his words as he asked her to be his girlfriend. Two years since she first believed that love could hold her steady.
She wanted today to matter. She wanted it to feel like a beginning, not a countdown to the end.
But deep down, a whisper gnawed at her: Does he remember?
Ethan didn't text that morning.
It shouldn't have surprised her — his shifts had been heavy, his exams closing in. Still, she had half-hoped for even a simple Happy Anniversary before class. She checked her phone three times during breakfast, once more while brushing her hair, and again before heading out the door. Nothing.
Mina noticed.
"You've looked at your phone so much, I'm starting to think you're waiting for the President to call," Mina teased lightly as they walked toward the lecture hall.
Althea forced a laugh. "Just… checking the time."
"Uh-huh," Mina said, unconvinced. Then, more gently: "It's today, isn't it?"
Althea's throat tightened. She nodded.
Mina sighed. "Alth…"
"Don't," Althea cut her off quickly. "Please. Not today. He'll remember."
Mina pressed her lips together, as if holding back the words threatening to spill out. "I just don't want to see you hurt."
"I'll be fine," Althea lied. "It's our anniversary. He wouldn't forget."
But with every hour that passed, her conviction thinned.
By afternoon, her phone finally buzzed. Her heart leapt, only to sink when she read the message.
Ethan: Hey, sorry, can't meet after class. Boss called me in. They're short-staffed. Rain check tomorrow?
Her fingers hovered over the screen, trembling. No mention of what day it was. Not even a hint.
She swallowed hard, typing back:
Althea: It's okay. Do your best.
She hit send before the tears could blur her vision.
She didn't cry. Not right away. Instead, she sat very still in her dorm room, staring at the blinking cursor on her laptop screen, the words of her essay swimming. She could almost hear Mina's voice: He should've remembered.
But Ethan hadn't.
And the silence where his acknowledgment should have been rang louder than anything.
That night, Althea sat at her desk, her dinner untouched beside her. The room was silent, except for the rain that had begun to fall again, tapping softly against the glass.
Her eyes strayed once more to the little red heart on the calendar. A cruel reminder.
She closed her eyes, and the memory came rushing back — vivid, warm, painful in its contrast.
Flashback – First Anniversary
She could still remember the way Ethan had waited for her outside her dorm, hiding awkwardly behind a bouquet of roses. His ears had been red, his grin boyish, and he had said, "I don't know if roses are too cliché, but you deserve the best. And these… they're for you."
She had laughed, burying her face in the flowers, their petals soft against her skin.
They spent that afternoon at the park, sharing cheap takeout under the shade of a tree. Ethan had pulled out a small notebook where he'd written her a poem — silly, full of rhymes that barely worked, but hers to keep.
She had laughed until her cheeks hurt, and he had kissed her to shut her up.
It had been simple. Imperfect. But unforgettable.
Her chest ached as she opened her eyes, the ghost of roses lingering where none had been given this year.
What happened to us?
The days that followed blurred together. Ethan messaged her still — little things about his shifts, the stress of exams. He even sent a photo of the convenience store's broken coffee machine with the caption: rip me.
He was trying, in his way. But the silence where their anniversary should have been thundered louder than any apology.
Althea carried it like a stone in her chest. She didn't bring it up — not yet. She wanted to see if he'd remember on his own. But with every passing day, hope withered like petals pressed between forgotten pages.
By the end of the week, Mina finally asked.
"You didn't tell him, did you?"
They were sitting under the bleachers after class, the late afternoon sun slanting gold across the empty field.
Althea shook her head. "No."
Mina groaned. "Alth! Why—"
"Because he should've known," Althea snapped, her voice cracking. She hugged her knees, staring at the grass. "I shouldn't have to remind him. Not about this."
Mina's expression softened. "You're right. You shouldn't." She hesitated. "So what now?"
Althea's throat tightened. "I don't know."
When Ethan finally asked to meet that weekend, Althea's heart leapt in cautious hope. Maybe this was it — maybe he'd realized, maybe he'd make it up to her.
He met her at the small café near campus, his hair slightly damp from the drizzle, his smile tired but genuine. He slid into the seat across from her, rubbing his palms together for warmth.
"Sorry I'm late," he said. "Had to finish a shift."
Althea nodded, trying to smile. "It's fine."
They ordered coffee. For a while, they talked — about school, about Mina's latest sarcastic remark in class, about the customer who had argued with Ethan over a discounted pack of instant noodles.
It was almost normal. Almost enough.
But then the silence came, heavy and sharp.
Althea stirred her coffee absently, watching the swirl of cream fade into the dark. She wanted to ask: Do you know what you missed? Do you know how much it mattered? But the words stayed locked in her throat.
Instead, Ethan reached across the table, brushing his fingers over hers. "I know I've been… distant. I'm sorry. I just… I'm trying, Thea."
She looked up at him, her chest aching at the sincerity in his eyes. He meant it. He really did.
But love, she realized, wasn't just about meaning well. It was about remembering. Choosing. Showing up even when tired.
And lately, he hadn't.
She forced a smile, squeezing his hand. "I know."
But inside, the truth was sinking like an anchor: He loves me. I love him. But love isn't enough anymore.
That night, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, Althea felt the weight of inevitability press down on her.
She thought of roses — once a promise, now just a memory.
And she knew, deep in her bones, that something between them had already broken.
Not with a bang. Not yet. But with small letdowns, missed calls, and a forgotten anniversary that whispered louder than words:
This is the beginning of the end.