Jade
I found myself smiling more, laughing at stupid jokes, leaning into Zade without thinking twice.
The walls I had built so carefully were crumbling piece by piece, not with a crash, but with a quiet, steady surrender that surprised even me. I caught myself imagining a future here, a future with him — a life where I wasn’t running, where I didn’t have to keep one foot always ready to bolt. I thought maybe, just maybe, I was finally ready to stop fighting it.
I told him that one evening, my voice barely above a whisper as we lay tangled in his bed, the moonlight painting silver patterns across the sheets.
“After graduation,” I said, tracing lazy circles on his chest with my fingertip, “I want to stay. With you.”
For a long moment, he said nothing, just stared up at the ceiling, his hand resting lightly against my back. I didn’t press. I thought maybe he was just stunned, maybe as overwhelmed by the gravity of my admission as I was. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost distant.
“That’s good,” he said simply, before falling silent again.
I told myself not to overthink it.
Not to let that tiny sting of unease burrow deeper into my chest.
But it was hard to ignore the way he pulled back—just a little—when I shifted closer in bed. The way his hand hesitated, pausing mid-air before finally smoothing down my back like he had to convince himself to do it. The way his body, once so desperate to be near mine, now seemed to hover just shy of touching.
I told myself it was nothing.
He was tired. Stressed. It had nothing to do with me.
But the cracks had started forming. And once you saw the first one, it was impossible not to notice the rest.
Over the next few days, the difference became impossible to deny.
Zade was still there. Physically present. But something inside him had gone quiet—like a door had slammed shut deep within, and I was locked out.
He answered my questions with clipped replies. Smiles took longer to appear. His touches became less frequent, lighter, like he was afraid too much contact might unravel something between us.
Sometimes, I’d catch him staring at me with an unreadable look. Not cold—but cautious. Like he was trying to figure out how to say something without breaking both of us.
And when I asked, “Is something wrong?”
He’d just shake his head. “Everything’s fine.”
But his eyes always betrayed him.
So I started reaching for him more. Leaning into his side, threading my fingers through his. Trying to recreate the rhythm we once had.
But every time I touched him, he tensed.
Just barely.
Just enough to feel like a slap.
And the worst part? He tried to hide it. Pretended like nothing had changed. Like we were still whole.
But I could feel it—the bond between us. It buzzed with a strange, jittery tension, like something was coming undone thread by thread. And I couldn’t stop pulling at the knots, hoping I could fix it before it unraveled completely.
I started second-guessing everything.
The way I laughed.
The way I looked at him.
The way I said his name.
Maybe I was too much. Maybe I was not enough. Maybe wanting a forever with him had been the wrong kind of dream.
The doubts that used to whisper in the back of my mind now screamed every time he avoided my gaze, every time he left the room a second too fast, without so much as a kiss goodbye.
Then one evening, we sat in the living room. The TV flickered in front of us, casting faint shadows across his face. Some mindless show played, but I couldn’t have said what it was.
I tucked myself against him, resting my head on his shoulder. I just wanted the comfort we used to share so easily. The closeness that once felt unbreakable.
After a long pause, his arm came around me.
Too slow.
Too forced.
Like he had to remind himself to hold me.
I closed my eyes, swallowing down the lump in my throat, willing myself not to cry. Not to ruin whatever fragile thread we still had left between us.
After a beat, I whispered, “Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer right away. His hand stilled against my arm, and I felt him tense beneath me. “I’m fine,” he said eventually, the words brittle and hollow. “Just tired.”