Work Text:
They used to walk home together every evening, their steps naturally falling into rhythm, their conversations spilling from jokes to dreams to the kind of confessions you only share when you feel completely seen. Back then, the world felt small enough to hold in their hands. But time has a way of stretching things days, distances, even people.
At first, the drift was subtle. A missed call here, a rain check there. They told themselves it was temporary, just a busy week, just a stressful month. But slowly, the spaces between their conversations grew wider, like cracks in a sidewalk that no one notices until grass starts pushing through. They still cared, of course, they did, but caring wasn’t the same as showing up, and neither of them knew how to say that out loud.
One evening, they ran into each other at the grocery store. The moment should’ve felt warm, familiar. Instead, it was polite. Careful. They talked about work, about the weather, about anything except the truth: that they no longer knew each other’s lives the way they once did. When they parted, they both hesitated, wanting to say something meaningful, something that could bridge the distance. But the words never came.
Later that night, each of them sat alone, thinking about how strange it was to miss someone who was still alive, still out there, still just a phone call away. They wondered if the drift had been inevitable, or if they had simply stopped choosing each other. And though neither reached out, both felt the same quiet ache, a reminder that sometimes relationships don’t end with a fight. Sometimes they end with silence.