Ren had always told himself that silence was easier than confrontation. Easier than saying things that couldn't be taken back. But silence, he was realizing, could also be the loudest noise in the world.
It had been a week since the roses. A week since Tulip's stories had left him staring too long at his screen, fingers itching, chest burning with words he never sent. A week of her posts being brighter, busier, louder friends' hangouts, inside jokes, fragments of laughter frozen in fifteen seconds while his replies, when he bothered, were nothing but muted, flat responses: "Cool." "Nice." "Looks fun."
And she noticed. Of course she noticed. Tulip had a way of reading between his words, of catching the sighs he never typed and the hesitations behind his short texts. But this time, she didn't press. She didn't ask if something was wrong. She didn't corner him with her usual, "Spit it out, Ren, I can hear you sulking through the phone." Instead, she let the silence grow, brick by brick, until it felt like a wall was forming between them.
Ren hated it. But he couldn't stop himself either.
On a late Sunday evening, he sat hunched at his desk, gaming laptop glowing faintly, but the screen was blurred because his thoughts kept circling back to her. He remembered the way she used to send him random pictures potted succulents at her windowsill, a half-wilted daisy she found on her way back from school, even a leaf shaped like a heart once. "Nature has moods too," she'd said, "just like people."
And he had believed her. Because when Tulip shared something as small as a leaf, it didn't feel small. It felt like being trusted with a piece of her world.
But roses? Roses were different. Roses carried weight. Roses carried meaning. And these roses hadn't been shared with him. They were flaunted on her story, for everyone. For someone.
Ren leaned back, exhaling sharply.
I'm overthinking.
That's what he told himself. He'd repeated it enough times that it almost felt true. Almost.
His phone buzzed. A notification. For a second, his chest leapt her name? but it was only Maya. A meme. He forced a laugh and typed a quick reply, but his eyes drifted back to Tulip's chat window. She was online. Green dot glowing like an open door. And yet no message.
He opened their thread, scrolling back. The shift was undeniable. At first, walls of texts, playful banter, teasing chess rematches. Then slowly, like water drying on cracked ground, the conversations thinned. His last reply "cool" stared back at him like a wound. He re-read it, hating how detached it looked. How final.
What had she thought, seeing that? Did she roll her eyes? Did she sigh? Did she feel the sting he was feeling now?
Ren closed his phone, tossed it on the desk, and dragged his hands down his face. His mind fought itself:
If she cared, she'd text first.
But she used to text first. She used to chase. And you loved that, didn't you?
She's moving on.
Or maybe she's just waiting for you to stop pushing her away.
The contradiction knotted in his chest until it was hard to breathe.
Across town, Tulip lay on her bed, staring at her ceiling fairy lights. Her phone rested on her stomach, screen dimmed. She'd typed and erased half a dozen messages to Ren that week Are you mad at me?, Did I do something?, I miss you. but none of them made it past the blinking cursor.
She wasn't used to this version of him. Ren had always been steady, careful, yes, but never this distant. Never this clipped. When he cared, she could feel it. When he smiled behind the screen, she could hear it in his words. But lately, it felt like he was pulling away, brick by brick, and she didn't know if she was supposed to break the wall down or respect it.
Tulip sighed, swiping to her own story feed. The roses were still pinned in her highlights. Not because she wanted to rub them in his face, but because well, because they were pretty. Because they had made her smile in that moment. But maybe Ren didn't see it that way. Maybe he saw something else entirely.
Her thumb hovered over his name in her chats. She thought of his old words, the way he once told her, "I don't block people. I just… fade out."
The thought made her chest ache. Was this fading out?