It happened quietly.
No argument. No raised voices. No dramatic shattering of words.
Just too much.
She hadn't expected it to arrive while he was there — not when she felt safe, not when she felt held. But overwhelm doesn't ask permission. It crept in slowly, then all at once, until every sound felt sharper, every thought heavier, every sensation too close to the surface.
So she retreated.
Not away from him in rejection — but inward, into the only shelter she knew when the world grew too loud. Her voice softened. Her eyes lowered. Her body turned slightly away, as if bracing against invisible weight.
"I just need a moment," she whispered.
He froze — not in body, but in understanding. He had always known she was sensitive. They had spoken about it. He had prepared for it in theory. But witnessing it in reality was different.
Still… he respected her space.
He let her have the quiet she asked for. But the distance stung them both.
He watched her shut the door — metaphorically and literally — and for the first time, he didn't know how to reach her without crossing the boundary she so carefully placed. And she, within that stillness, felt the ache of knowing she was the source of the tension now settling in the room.
Not blame. Not anger.
Just hurt.
A small crack in the air where certainty had lived moments before.
It didn't last long. The silence softened. Breath steadied. The walls slowly lowered again.
But something had shifted.
Not broken — but marked.
And when she finally looked up at him again, there was an unspoken understanding in her eyes.
You stayed, even when I pulled away.
And in his:
I just didn't want to lose you.