The school bell rang louder than usual that morning.
Maybe it was just me — hearing everything louder now that Nathan's voice had gone quiet.
It started small — the missed calls, the late replies.
Then came the "sorry, I slept off," and "I've just been busy."
And soon, I stopped asking how he was doing because the answer was always the same: fine.
But it wasn't fine.
We weren't fine.
I remember sitting by the school gate, books on my lap, phone in hand — waiting for a message that never came.
Once upon a time, he'd text me in the middle of his day, just to say something silly like,
"You cross my mind like traffic."
Now, silence had replaced all of that.
When I finally asked if something was wrong, he said softly,
"I've just been tired lately. Don't overthink, okay?"
I smiled, even though it stung. "Okay."
But I did overthink — every word, every pause, every night he didn't call.
I replayed our old conversations like favorite songs I couldn't stop humming,
hoping maybe one of them would remind me what closeness used to feel like.
He stopped telling me about his day.
Stopped asking about mine.
And the distance started to feel like another person between us —
a silent guest that sat between every text, every call, every moment we used to share.
One evening, after a long day of lectures, I sat in my room and whispered to myself,
"I won't chase twice."
Because I did once — and it broke me in ways I promised myself I'd never repeat.
I remembered how it felt to beg for attention that used to come freely,
how exhausting it was to love someone while pretending not to notice they were pulling away.
So this time, I mirrored his silence.
Texted less. Spoke less.
Matched every inch of his withdrawal with mine.
Maybe I thought it would make him miss me.
Or maybe I just wanted to protect my pride —
to prove to myself that I could stop reaching when the other person stopped holding on.
Either way, it didn't make things better — just quieter.
And in that quiet, I started realizing something harsh:
sometimes, love doesn't end with a fight.
It just fades when both people stop trying to be seen.
The next morning, I walked through the school corridor with headphones on,
music filling the spaces where his voice used to be.
My friends laughed nearby,
and I forced a smile — the kind that doesn't reach your eyes but saves you from questions.
I told myself I was fine.
That I was strong.
That I could live without the texts, the calls, the little "good morning" messages that used to make my day start softer.
But strength felt heavy when it came from pretending.
So I threw myself into studying.
Focused on my exams instead.
Or at least, I tried to.
But studying with a heavy heart feels like writing on water — nothing stays.
The words blurred on the page,
and my mind kept wandering to Nathan's voice,
his laughter,
and all the small plans we once made that were now turning into strangers in my head.
Sometimes, I'd open our old chats and scroll,
not to reread,
just to remind myself that it was once real.
That it wasn't all in my imagination.
But even memories start to feel like ghosts after a while —
you see their shape, but not their warmth.
I still checked my phone every night, though I'd already stopped expecting a message.
It became a quiet ritual — the small hope before sleep.
A tiny part of me still wished to see his name light up my screen.
Maybe that's what it means to love someone who's slipping away —
you hold on even when you've already let go.
You build peace out of pretending,
and call it strength because it hurts less than the truth.
And yet, even as I turned off my phone and lay in the dark,
I whispered one small prayer I never said out loud:
If he ever looks for me again,
may he still find me gentle.