She was lying in the bed beside me, but it felt like there was an entire world between us.

The hotel room was silent except for the low hum of the city outside and the occasional creak of the air vent above. She hadn't spoken in over an hour. Just laid there, curled slightly away from me, fingers fiddling with the hem of the hoodie she was wearing — mine, of course. Always mine.

And that’s what hurt the most. She was still here. Wearing my clothes. In my space. But I couldn't reach her.

I stared at the ceiling like maybe it would collapse and say what I couldn’t. My throat felt tight. My chest even worse. I hadn’t meant to lose her like this — not loudly, not in a dramatic crash — just… slowly. Carelessly. Like forgetting to water something beautiful until one day, you notice it's fading.

“I don't know when it started,” she said suddenly, voice so soft I almost thought I imagined it. “But I don’t feel like I’m yours anymore.”

I sat up, breath catching in my throat. “What?”

She turned toward me, finally. Her eyes were red, but calm. The kind of calm that comes after a storm you already decided not to fight.

“You love me,” she said. “But not enough to notice I'm breaking.”

I wanted to argue. But the truth? I did notice. I just kept telling myself we’d be okay later. After the next race. After the season. After the noise.

Later never came.

I slid off the bed, sat on the floor at the edge, my back against the mattress where she still lay. I couldn’t look at her — not yet. Not when I knew I might be the reason her heart felt this tired.

“I don’t care about the race right now,” I said quietly. “I don’t care about the fans or the standings or the noise. I care about this. About you. And if I’ve made you feel unloved, I’ll carry that for the rest of my life. But if you still love me… please don’t walk away in the morning.”