Daniel noticed Amara's quiet long before she left.
He just misunderstood it.
The morning after her call with her mother, Amara moved through the apartment with less urgency. She spoke less. Asked fewer questions. Daniel noticed the absence of friction and felt relieved.
To him, silence had always meant peace.
"You seem calmer lately," he told her that evening as they sat together, the television murmuring in the background. "I think whatever was bothering you has passed."
Amara turned toward him slowly. "Sometimes quiet isn't peace."
Daniel laughed lightly. "You always overthink things."
He didn't notice how her shoulders settled inward after that.
Daniel believed love was endurance. He had learned that growing up—watching his mother manage everything without complaint, without confession. Problems were handled quietly. Emotions were something you survived, not something you discussed.
So when Amara stopped talking, he assumed she had matured into the relationship.
Later that week, he visited his mother.
Mama Adebayo listened as he spoke about work and stress and mentioned, almost casually, that Amara had been "emotional before but better now."
"That is good," she said immediately. "Peace in a home is better than too much talking."
Daniel nodded.
"As long as she stays," his mother added, "she loves you. Endurance is love."
The words settled comfortably into his chest.
When Daniel returned home that night, Amara told him she would be visiting her parents for a few days.
"I just need a break," she said.
"That's fine," Daniel replied easily. "Take your time."
He did not ask why.
He did not notice she packed only one bag.