: What We Don't Say
For a while, things were… quiet.
Not the painful kind of quiet. Not the kind that sat heavy in Ariel's chest or made her overthink every pause. This quiet was careful. Intentional. Like both of them were walking on thin glass, afraid one wrong step would crack everything open again.
Kai texted more. Checked in. Asked how her day went—and actually waited for the answer.
Ariel noticed. She always did.
But noticing effort didn't erase fear.
They didn't talk about labels. Didn't talk about the future. They existed in the present like it was a fragile agreement—this works, so don't touch it too hard.
Until life did what it always does.
It interrupted.
Ariel was halfway through sorting her notes at the library when her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number
She frowned before answering. "Hello?"
"Is this Ariel?" a woman asked, her voice polite but firm.
"Yes… this is she."
"I'm calling from the academic office. You applied for the international teaching program, correct?"
Ariel's breath caught.
She had applied months ago—back when her world was smaller and love wasn't a variable she had to calculate around. Back when leaving felt like the smartest, safest plan.
"Yes," she said slowly. "I did."
"We'd like to inform you that you've been selected for the final stage. If successful, you'll be relocating in three months."
Three months.
The word echoed in her head like a countdown she hadn't known was already running.
After the call ended, Ariel just sat there, staring at nothing.
This was everything she wanted.
So why did it feel like a loss?
⸻
She didn't tell Kai that day.
Or the next.
Not because she wanted to lie—but because she didn't know how to explain that her dream suddenly felt like betrayal.
When Kai showed up at her place that evening with takeout and a soft smile, she almost broke.
"You okay?" he asked, noticing the way she kept fidgeting.
"Yeah," she lied easily. Too easily.
He didn't push. He never did. And somehow, that made it worse.
They ate in comfortable silence, legs brushing, laughter spilling occasionally when he teased her about stealing fries off his plate. It felt normal. Safe.
Temporary.
Later, as they lay side by side, the room dim and quiet, Kai spoke.
"You've been distant."
Ariel turned to face him. "I've been here."
"Physically," he said gently. "But your mind keeps leaving the room."
Her chest tightened. "I don't want to hurt you."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Kai went still.
"That's a weird thing to say," he murmured.
She sat up, pulling the blanket around herself like armor. "I might be leaving."
His eyes searched her face. "Leaving where?"
She swallowed. "The country."
Silence.
This time, it wasn't careful.
It was sharp.
"How long?" he asked.
"Three months."
He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. "You already decided?"
"No," she said quickly. "I mean—I applied before we… before everything."
"So this was always the plan," he said, more to himself than her.
"Yes. And no." Her voice trembled. "I didn't think I'd have something to stay for."
That hurt landed between them like glass shattering.
Kai stood up, pacing the room. "So what am I, Ariel? A chapter you finish before the real story starts?"
"That's not fair."
"And disappearing on me was?" he shot back.
She flinched.
"I told you I was scared of abandonment," he continued. "You said you were tired of running. But now you're packing your bags?"
Tears burned her eyes. "I'm choosing myself."
"And where does that leave me?"
She didn't have an answer.
That was the problem.
⸻
That night, Kai left without saying goodbye.
Ariel cried into her pillow until her chest ached. Not because he was angry—but because she understood him.
They were both fighting for survival in different ways.
The next few weeks were messy.
Texts turned short. Calls became rare. Every conversation felt like it was dancing around the inevitable.
The distance didn't start when she planned to leave.
It started when neither of them knew how to ask the other to stay.
One evening, Ariel stood in front of her mirror, holding her acceptance letter with shaking hands. This was her chance. Her way out. Her proof that she could build something on her own.
But love had complicated things.
She showed up at Kai's place unannounced.
He opened the door, surprise flashing across his face before he stepped aside.
"I don't want us to end like this," she said, voice breaking. "In silence and assumptions."
He leaned against the wall. "Then say what you're really afraid of."
She took a deep breath. "I'm afraid that if I stay, I'll resent you. And if I go, I'll lose you."
Kai nodded slowly. "And I'm afraid that loving you means being left behind."
They stood there, bare and exposed.
"Maybe," Ariel whispered, "love isn't about choosing each other forever."
He looked at her, eyes soft but sad. "Maybe it's about choosing each other honestly."
She handed him the letter.
"I haven't accepted yet."
He read it carefully, then looked up. "You should go."
Her heart cracked. "Kai—"
"You deserve everything you're chasing," he said quietly. "And I won't be the reason you shrink your world."
She stepped closer. "And you deserve someone who stays."
He smiled sadly. "Timing's cruel like that."
They hugged—tight, lingering, like they were memorizing each other.
Nothing ended that night.
But something shifted.
Because love, Ariel realized, wasn't always about holding on.
Sometimes, it was about letting go—with your heart still open.