It had been five days since the turtle.
The gift box still sat on Ren's desk, untouched a stubborn little monument to a moment he'd thought would mean something.
He kept telling himself he'd give it to her when they met, when the timing felt right, when she seemed like herself again.
The problem was… she didn't.
Tulip's replies had shrunk to single words.
No more random videos at 2 a.m. with "THIS made me think of you" captions.
No voice notes of her half-laughing as she whispered gossip she swore she'd delete later.
Now it was just:
"gm"
"gm"
"had lunch?"
"yeah."
The spaces between their chats stretched longer each day.
Ren noticed it the way you notice the days getting shorter before winter not in one sudden moment, but in the creeping, quiet way light leaves a room.
The first time he tried to bring it up, he did it gently.
Tuesday evening. Earphones in, no music playing, watching the typing indicator blink and vanish again.
Ren: "You've been quiet lately. Everything okay?"
The reply came almost instantly, like she'd been waiting but the words were… flat.
Tulip: "Yeah, just busy."
Pause.
Tulip: "Nothing's wrong."
She didn't send an emoji. Not even a full stop.
Ren stared at it, wanting to believe her. So he did.
Or at least, he tried.
By Friday, the "busy" explanation was wearing thin.
She'd left him on read twice that morning something she never used to do.
That night, restless, Ren opened Instagram a habit he'd mostly kicked.
He scrolled, not really looking, until Zaya's name appeared in the story bar.
He almost didn't click.
Almost.
The video began with loud music, lights flashing over a crowd.
Then the camera panned to a corner and there she was.
Tulip.
Laughing.
Head tilted back the way she only did when she was truly at ease.
A drink in her hand.
People he didn't know around her.
Her hair loose over her shoulders a detail that shouldn't have mattered, but did.
Timestamp: two hours ago.
Two hours ago, she'd told him she was "finishing an assignment and crashing early."
The first reaction wasn't anger.
It was that low, sinking feeling the kind that makes you suddenly aware of your own breathing.
Not because she was at a party. She could do whatever she wanted.
It was the lie that caught in his chest.
He watched the story again.
And again.
As if one replay might reveal some context, some sign that she'd wanted to tell him but couldn't.
But all he saw was her smiling somewhere he didn't exist.
Half an hour later, he gave in.
Ren: "Saw Zaya's story."
Three dots appeared.
Vanished.
Reappeared.
Vanished again.
Tulip: "Oh. Yeah, she dragged me there."
"It wasn't really a party."
Ren frowned. The bass in the background of the clip had been enough to rattle the phone mic.
Ren: "You could've just told me you were going."
Long pause.
Tulip: "I didn't think it mattered."
That one landed harder than he expected.
Because to him, it did matter.
Not where she went, not who she was with but the choice to hide it.
Ren: "It matters when you lie."
This time, the pause felt heavier.
When her reply came, it was edged:
Tulip: "I didn't lie. I just… didn't think you'd get it."
Something twisted in his stomach.
Ren: "Get what?"
Tulip: "That sometimes I just wanna go out without explaining myself. Without feeling like I owe someone an update."
The words hit differently.
Not because she was wrong, but because it sounded like he was the problem.
Like caring enough to want to know was a flaw.
Ren: "I'm not asking for updates. I'm asking for honesty."
Tulip: "Same thing to me."
And there it was the quiet click of a door closing, even though neither of them had hung up the conversation.
He tossed his phone onto the bed. Picked it up again.
Imagined her still at that party when she'd typed those words.
Her fingers swiping between him and someone else's laughter.
Maybe a photo being taken right then, another story he wouldn't be tagged in.
When it became clear she wasn't going to reply, he closed everything.
The ache wasn't sharp; it was… slow. The kind that doesn't knock you over, but settles in your chest and stays there.
Later that night, he stared at the gift box on his desk.
The turtle inside felt almost like a joke now a fragile thing meant for someone who was already drifting.
He remembered the exact thought when he bought it:
She'll smile when she sees this.
Now he wasn't sure she would.
The next morning, there was no "gm" from her.
He didn't send one either.
The silence stretched until it didn't feel like silence anymore it felt like absence.
For the first time in months, Ren went a whole day without talking to her.
That night, he didn't check her chat. Didn't check her stories. Didn't check if she was online.
The crystal turtle stayed in its box.
The sticky note still clung to the top, curling at the edges like it was tired of waiting.
And in the dark, under his blanket, Ren found himself thinking of the same question he'd typed and deleted before:
Did I do something?
Only this time, he didn't even type it.
Because the real question had changed.
Now it was:
When did she stop telling me the truth?
The night ended without a goodnight.
The morning came without a good morning.
And for the first time since they'd met… Ren wasn't sure they were even in the same story anymore.