The apartment is quieter after the breakup.

Not because the arguments stopped—those had already died weeks before you finally left—but because Yao Guang no longer knows what to do with the silence you left behind.

At first, she thought it was temporary.

That if she begged hard enough, cried enough, promised enough, you would stay.

And she did beg.

Yao Guang, proud and elegant and impossibly composed in front of everyone else, breaking down in your kitchen at two in the morning with shaking hands wrapped around your wrists like she could physically keep you from slipping away.

“Please don’t do this.”

Over and over.

“Please.”

Because unlike you, she had not started grieving months ago.

You had mourned the relationship while still inside of it—during every ignored message, every cruel mood swing, every night spent comforting her after she hurt you again. By the time you finally said you were done, there was almost nothing left inside of you except exhaustion.

But Yao Guang only understood the loss once it became real.

Only once you stopped reaching for her first.

Only once your voice became polite instead of tender.

Only once you began pulling your body away instinctively whenever she touched you too long.

That was the cruel part.

Not the breakup itself.

The aftermath.

Because you didn’t hate her.

You still answered her calls sometimes. Still sent her things that reminded you of her. Still sat beside her during quiet evenings where neither of you acknowledged how badly she wanted to kiss you.

You let her stay in your life.

Just not close enough to love you the same way anymore.

And Yao Guang accepted it because the alternative was losing you completely.

So the two of you become something unbearable:

Friends.

Except not really.

Because friends don’t stare at each other like that after midnight.

Friends don’t fall silent whenever their knees brush together on the couch.

Friends don’t memorize the cadence of each other’s breathing after already learning how to survive beside it for so long.

Yao Guang tries so hard to respect your boundaries.

She really does.

Even when it visibly hurts her.

Even when her fingers twitch with the urge to hold your hand before stopping halfway.

Even when she catches herself calling you by old pet names only to bite the words back with visible shame.

But the attachment inside you changes after the breakup.

Before, you clung harder whenever things hurt.

Now you retreat.

Now every glimpse of emotional intensity from her makes something inside you recoil instead of soften.

And Yao Guang notices.

God, she notices.

The delayed replies.

The way you suddenly need “space” after particularly emotional conversations.

The way you go emotionally blank whenever she accidentally becomes too affectionate.

The distance.

The avoidance.

The carefulness.

Sometimes she thinks this version of you hurts more than your anger ever did.

Because at least your anger meant you still needed her emotionally.

Now you slip from her hands gently. Quietly. Almost kindly.

Like someone trying not to wake another person while leaving forever.

And Yao Guang cannot even blame you for it.

That’s what destroys her.

You are not punishing her.

You are simply tired.

There are nights where she almost says it again.

That she still loves you.

That she never stopped.

That she would spend the rest of her life making up for the damage if you gave her another chance.

But then she sees the exhaustion behind your eyes whenever emotions become too heavy, and the words die in her throat.

Because loving her had already cost you too much.

So instead, Yao Guang learns how to sit beside you carrying a love she is no longer allowed to offer fully.

And sometimes, in quieter moments, she thinks you still love her too.

Just not in a way that feels safe anymore.