The first sign of the cracks was subtle—a missed dinner, a phone call that went straight to voicemail, a distance in Julian's eyes that didn't belong to their world. He was battling a darkness, a deep-seated melancholia that he described as "a fog that refuses to lift."Maya tried to be the sun.
She filled their apartment with vibrant paintings, bright music, and unwavering affection. She believed if she loved him hard enough, she could chase away the shadows."I can't let you drown with me, Maya," he said one October night, his voice hollow.
"Then I'll learn to breathe underwater," she answered, tears blurring her vision.It was a noble sentiment, but an impossible reality.The breakup didn't happen with a scream or a dramatic argument. It happened with a slow, agonizing fade. The conversations became polite, the touches fewer, and the smiles forced. The glass house was losing its structural integrity.One morning, Maya woke up to find the apartment silent. Julian was gone. There was no note, just his favorite poetry book sitting on the coffee table, open to a page with a poem about lost chances.
The absence of him was a physical ache, a tearing sensation in her chest that made it hard to breathe.