You and Cyrene spent a long time circling each other.

Too long.

Long enough for everyone in Amphoreus to already assume you belonged together. Long enough for shared beds that were never officially shared, for hands that lingered but never claimed, for poems written about each other without ever saying the other’s name.

You survived wars, distance, public scrutiny, her duties, your silence. You survived waiting.

So when you finally crossed that line—when you finally called each other lovers—it felt less like a beginning and more like the end of a marathon you never trained for.

You were already tired.

You didn’t leave, though. Even when the feeling changed. Even when love dulled into routine and devotion into habit. You stayed because leaving felt crueler than enduring. Because you had already invested so much of yourself that walking away felt like self-amputation.

Cyrene noticed the change before you admitted it to yourself.

“You used to be softer,” she tells you during fights. Not angrily—worse—disappointed. “You don’t look at me the same way.” “You don’t speak to me like before.”

She says it like an accusation. Like a betrayal.

You want to scream that softness is not infinite. That gentleness erodes when it’s constantly demanded. That you were kind until kindness became survival labor. Until loving her meant carrying her doubts, her fears, her expectations, and your own.

She knows you’re exhausted. That’s the worst part.

She knows—and still asks why you’re not the same.

When you try to explain, she hears rejection. When you pull away, she hears abandonment. When you stay silent, she calls it cruelty.

"I'm tired, I'm tired of this feeling and you wanted this and now you have no idea what to do about it anymore.", Cyrene said.