It didn't happen all at once.
It started with small things—things Keifer would've ignored if he hadn't already been paying attention.
Jay began coming home later than usual. Not dramatically late. Just late enough that dinner cooled untouched, late enough that she'd kick her shoes off with a tired sigh and apologize without being asked.
"Work ran long," she'd say. "I was helping someone."
At first, Keifer didn't question it.
Then he noticed the name slipping into conversation more often than it should have—casual, harmless, always followed by context.
He needed guidance.
He was overwhelmed.
I couldn't just leave him.
Jay said it all without hesitation, without secrecy.
And somehow, that made it worse.
One evening, she came in laughing softly at her phone, fingers moving quickly as she typed. The smile faded the moment she realized Keifer was watching.
"Oh—sorry," she said. "It's nothing. He was just thanking me again."
Keifer nodded. Calm. Neutral. "You're very generous with your time."
She smiled. "He doesn't have anyone else to help."
That sat with him longer than it should have.
Over the next few days, the changes became clearer. Jay checked her phone more. Mentioned plans he wasn't part of. She was still warm with Keifer—but distracted, like part of her attention was always somewhere else.
Keifer never accused. Never questioned directly.
He just… watched.
One night, she came home much later than usual. Her hair was loose, exhaustion lining her face, jacket slung over her arm.
"I'm sorry," she said immediately. "I lost track of time."
"Helping him again?" Keifer asked, voice even.
Jay blinked, surprised—not by the question, but by the tone. "Yes. He was struggling. I didn't want to leave him halfway."
Keifer studied her for a moment too long.
"You didn't message," he said.
"I thought I did," she replied, already checking her phone. "I must've—" She stopped. Looked up. "Are you upset?"
"No," he said quickly. Too quickly. "Just noticing."
"Noticing what?"
"That you're not here," he answered honestly. "Even when you are."
Silence settled between them.
Jay's expression softened. "Keifer…"
He looked away, jaw tightening—not angry, not controlling. Something quieter. Something unfamiliar.
"I'm aware this isn't logical," he said. "You're allowed to help people. You always have." He paused. "I just don't like realizing I'm no longer the person you come to first."
That surprised her.
"You are," she said gently.
He met her eyes. "Then why does it feel like I'm being slowly replaced—and expected not to notice?"
Jay stepped closer, concern flickering across her face. "You're not being replaced."
"I know," he said. "That doesn't stop the feeling."
That was the truth of it.
Not jealousy loud enough to accuse.
Not insecurity sharp enough to demand.
Just a quiet fear, sitting in his chest, growing heavier every time she came home late… every time her attention lingered elsewhere… every time he chose silence over saying what scared him.
And Jay, standing there now, realized something unsettling:
For once, Keifer wasn't the steady one.
He was the one unsure where he stood.
Jay's distance didn't make Keifer angry.
It made him absent.
At first, he missed small things—forgot where he'd placed his phone, skimmed conversations instead of listening, stared at reports without absorbing a word. Then it grew. He stopped noticing the way Jay tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous. Stopped registering the sound of her footsteps when she came home.
He stayed late at work. Not because he had to—but because being busy was easier than feeling off-balance.
At home, he barely looked up when she entered.
"Hey," she'd say softly.
"Mmm," he'd hum, eyes still on his screen.
Jay tried filling the gaps at first—telling him about her day, asking about his. His answers stayed brief, polite, distant. He never snapped. Never accused.
He just wasn't there.
When she sat beside him, he didn't shift away—but he didn't lean in either. When she reached for his hand, he let her hold it, unresponsive, like someone allowing contact without truly returning it.
That scared her more than anger ever could.
Days passed like that.
Conversations thinned to logistics. Meals eaten at different times. Silence settling between them so naturally it felt intentional.
One evening, Jay stood in the doorway watching him work. He hadn't even noticed she'd come in.
She spoke his name.
He looked up slowly, like he'd been pulled from somewhere far away. "Yeah?"
"You haven't looked at me in days," she said quietly.
He didn't deny it.
"I didn't want to interfere," he replied, calm as ever. "You've been busy."
Her chest tightened. "So have you."
A pause.
"I didn't think you needed me hovering," he continued. "You seem… occupied elsewhere."
Jay swallowed. "Is that what this is?"
He closed his laptop at last. "I don't know what this is," he admitted. "I just know I started feeling like a background presence in your life—and I don't know how to exist halfway."
That hurt. Deeply.
"You didn't say anything," she whispered.
"I didn't want to make it your responsibility," he said. "If I felt unstable, that was mine to manage."
She shook her head faintly. "You managed it by disappearing."
His gaze softened, something broken flickering through. "I thought that might be easier for you."
Jay stepped closer, tears threatening now. "Nothing about this has been easy."
He finally looked at her properly then—really looked. And for the first time in days, she saw how tired he was. How unfocused. How unlike himself.
"This is my fault," she said, voice trembling. "I did this to you."
Keifer didn't agree.
But he didn't deny it either.
And that silence told her everything.
Her distance hadn't pushed him away.
It had made him lose himself.
The next few days felt like they were happening to someone else.
Jay tried to keep things normal. She smiled when she saw him. She asked about his day. She even tried to laugh at his usual dry jokes.
But Keifer wasn't there to catch them anymore.
He moved through the apartment like a ghost who still remembered the layout. He ate in silence. He worked in silence. He slept in silence. And when Jay tried to speak to him, he answered like a man being careful not to wake a sleeping storm.
"Mmm."
"Okay."
"Yeah."
Not angry. Not cold.
Just… absent.
That night, Jay sat on the edge of the bed and watched him from across the room.
He was staring at the wall, not looking at her. Hands folded in his lap. The kind of stillness that wasn't peace. It was exhaustion.
Jay stood up, moving closer.
"Keifer," she said softly.
He didn't look up.
"Keifer," she repeated, a little louder.
His eyes snapped to hers.
For a second, she thought he might say something kind. Something gentle. Something that would fix it.
But he didn't.
Instead, his expression shifted into something she hadn't seen before—something like a man on the edge of a decision.
He stood up slowly.
Jay's heart hit her ribs. "What are you doing?"
He didn't answer immediately. He just walked toward her.
When he stopped in front of her, he finally spoke.
"I can't do this anymore," he said quietly.
Jay froze. "Do what?"
He swallowed. His voice stayed steady, but there was a crack in it—just one, barely visible, like ice starting to break.
"This," he said, gesturing between them. "This distance. This… pretending like we're fine."
Jay's eyes filled.
"I didn't think you'd notice," she whispered.
Keifer shook his head. "I notice everything."
His gaze dropped to her hands. "I noticed when you stopped looking at me like I mattered. I noticed when you started choosing other people over coming home to me. I noticed when you came home late and acted like it was normal."
Jay's breath caught.
He continued, voice steady but sharp with pain.
"I noticed because I couldn't stop noticing. And I couldn't keep pretending it wasn't killing me."
Jay stepped closer, trembling. "I'm sorry."
He looked at her like he was trying to memorize her face again. "Sorry isn't enough."
She flinched at the truth in his words.
"You're right," she said, voice shaking. "It isn't."
Keifer's eyes held hers, unwavering.
"I didn't leave," he said quietly. "But I feel like I already did."
Jay's throat tightened. "So what do we do?"
Keifer's jaw tightened. His voice softened, but it still held that controlled edge.
"We stop pretending," he said. "We stop letting distance become our habit. We either fix this now… or we stop pretending we're okay."
Jay's tears fell then, silent and unstoppable.
She reached for him, but he didn't move closer right away.
He waited.
Like he was giving her the chance to choose.
Jay swallowed hard. "I don't want to lose you."
Keifer's expression softened.
But his voice stayed quiet and firm.
"Then stop pushing me away," he said. "Because I'm not sure how much more of this I can take before I stop coming back."
The silence that followed wasn't calm anymore.
It was real.
And it was the first time in days that Jay felt like they were finally standing on the same ground again—no pretending, no distance, no quiet chaos.
Just the truth.