---
I should've known it was goodbye.
Not because he said it.
He never said it.
But in the way he touched me slower that night.
In the way he kissed my forehead instead of my lips.
In the way his voice softened when he asked, "Are you okay?"—
As if he was asking if I'd survive after him.
We were lying in my room, wrapped in blankets and dim yellow light. The ceiling fan spun above us, slow and steady, mocking the storm I felt brewing inside my chest.
He looked like he always did.
Dark hoodie.
Ruffled hair.
That silver ring he always twisted when he was anxious.
But something felt… different.
Less like him being here,
And more like him preparing to be gone.
---
"You're quiet," I murmured, tracing the veins on the back of his hand. "You thinking about something?"
He shook his head. Lied.
"Just tired."
But I knew him better than that.
He never got tired of us.
Only of trying to pretend he wasn't scared.
So I stayed quiet too, afraid that if I pushed, the truth might come spilling out like blood from a wound neither of us were ready to treat.
---
We watched the shadows move on the walls.
He played with the ends of my hair like he was trying to memorize the texture.
He didn't say, "I love you."
But he didn't have to.
Because everything he didn't say…
I felt it.
In the way he looked at me like I was a memory already happening.
In the way his fingers held mine tighter—just for a moment—before letting go to reach for his phone.
He smiled that night.
Soft. Distant.
Like he was watching a dream fade as he woke up.
That smile should've been my warning.
But I mistook it for affection.
---
The next morning, he left early.
Didn't wake me.
Didn't leave a note.
Just a voicemail.
"Hey... I didn't want to wake you. You looked peaceful. Maybe the most peaceful I've ever seen you. And I didn't want to take that away. I'll see you soon, okay? Be good. Take care of yourself."
He didn't say bye.
He didn't say I love you.
Just "Take care."
And somehow, that was worse.
Because people only say "take care" when they're not planning to do it themselves anymore.
---
I replayed that voicemail every day for a week.
Then deleted it.
Then typed it out in a notebook just to keep it somehow.
And when people asked why I was quieter lately,
Why my eyes looked tired,
Why I stopped waiting for messages that never came—
I told them I was fine.
Because heartbreak isn't always about tears.
Sometimes it's just silence you weren't expecting.
Distance you didn't agree to.
And a memory that won't leave no matter how many new ones you try to build over it.