The next Monday felt heavier than it should have.
Issa noticed the distance before anyone else did—the empty seat beside her in history class, the absence of Max's voice leaning back to whisper a comment. He sat two rows ahead now, closer to the window, closer to Emily. The space he left behind felt deliberate, like a decision neither of them had said out loud.
When the teacher handed out worksheets, Max turned halfway around, hesitated, then faced forward again.
Issa pretended not to notice.
She was getting good at that.
---
At lunch, her friends noticed.
"You okay?" Sana asked, sliding into the seat across from her. "You've been quiet."
"I'm just tired," Issa replied.
She watched Max across the cafeteria. He laughed with Emily, but the sound felt forced, like he was trying to convince himself of something. For a brief moment, his eyes searched the room—until they found Issa.
Their gazes met.
Issa looked away first.
The letters stopped.
Not because Issa had nothing to say, but because writing had always been where she went when Max was her safe place. Without him, the pages felt too honest, too exposed.
She filled her nights with homework, music, anything that kept her from thinking about the way he used to say her name like it mattered.
On Thursday afternoon, Max finally spoke to her.
He caught up to her outside the library, breathless and uncertain in a way Issa had never seen before.
"Hey," he said. "Can we talk?"
She hesitated. "About what?"
"About… us. I guess."
The word us felt dangerous.
They sat on the library steps, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"I didn't realize," Max said finally.
Issa let out a small laugh that held no humor. "That's kind of the problem."
"I never meant to make you feel like you didn't matter," he said. "You matter. A lot."
"But not the way I needed to," she said softly.
He looked down at his hands. "I don't know how to fix this."
Issa swallowed. "I don't think you can."
The next few days were quieter.
Max tried—texting her memes, asking how her day was—but Issa responded with polite distance. She wasn't punishing him. She was protecting herself.
One night, she opened her notebook again.
Max,
Distance hurts, but not as much as disappearing for someone who never asked you to.
She didn't cry this time.
The real shift came during the spring dance.
Issa went with friends, wearing a blue dress she almost didn't buy. She laughed, danced, let herself feel present for the first time in weeks.
Max watched her from across the gym, realization dawning too late.
When he approached, she smiled—warm, kind, and different.
"You look happy," he said.
"I am," she replied.
The truth of it surprised them both.
That night, Issa wrote one last letter—not out of pain, but clarity.
I loved you honestly. Quietly. Deeply. But love should not cost you yourself.
She closed the notebook and slid it into her drawer.
Some distances are necessary.
And some realizations arrive only when there's nothing left to reach for.