It had been three weeks since the chicken dinner, and in that time, Karen and Jonny had perfected the art of not arguing by simply avoiding the things that mattered. They moved around the apartment like polite roommates—respectful, careful, and emotionally guarded. Conversations were transactional. Questions like "How was your day?" were met with "Fine," and "Want anything from the store?" became their version of affection.
Karen noticed the emptiness in the mornings the most.
Jonny had started waking up earlier, slipping out before her alarm buzzed. She'd find a note on the counter—Went to the café, don't wait up—sometimes with a smiley face, sometimes not. And she'd sit there, robe wrapped around her, sipping her coffee with a heart too full of things unsaid.
She wasn't blind. She could see what was happening. But acknowledging it aloud felt like opening a dam she wasn't ready to deal with. She was drowning in deadlines, media interviews, another upcoming tour—and yet, nothing pressed on her like the realization that love was slipping through her fingers while she sat frozen in fear.
Jonny, on the other hand, had begun to count the hours he spent out of the apartment like tiny victories. At first, he told himself it was just to clear his head. But then he started staying longer at the university library, volunteering for open mic nights, even babysitting for Marisol's sister just to stay busy.
He didn't want to leave Karen. He loved her—deeply. But he was slowly realizing he couldn't love for both of them.
---
One Sunday, they found themselves in the same space, unavoidably.
Rain tapped softly against the windows as Jonny folded laundry in the living room. Karen sat on the couch, trying to write but mostly watching him out of the corner of her eye. He looked thinner. Tired. Quieter.
"Jonny," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't look up. "Yeah?"
"Do you think we made a mistake?"
That stopped him. He turned, the basket in his hand trembling slightly.
"A mistake?" he echoed.
"Getting involved. Trying to make it work when everything was stacked against us."
Jonny exhaled slowly, setting the basket down. "No," he said after a long pause. "Falling in love with you wasn't a mistake. It was the best thing I've ever done."
Karen blinked back the sting in her eyes.
"But I think we made the mistake of believing love would be enough," he added.
That silence again.
"I miss us," Karen said finally. "But I don't know how to fix us."
Jonny nodded. "Maybe we don't fix it. Maybe we let it breathe. Give it space."
Her heart clenched. "You want a break?"
"I want us to be honest," he said gently. "And if that means stepping back to find our way, then… maybe that's what we need."
Karen wanted to scream no. To throw herself into his arms, to plead with him to stay, to remind him that they had something rare. But she also knew deep down… that love without room to breathe turns into quiet resentment. And they were almost there.
So she nodded.
"Okay."
---
Jonny moved out two days later, just for a while, he said. Just until they could see things clearly.
As he closed the door behind him, Karen sat on the edge of their bed—now her bed—and for the first time in a long time, she cried. Not because he left, but because she let him go.
And because she wasn't sure who she was without him anymore.