It’s been a year.

A full year of loving Lingsha in the only way you know how—

loudly.

Soft touches. Constant messages. Small gifts. Words that spill out of you without hesitation, like love is something you were always meant to give in excess.

And she never rejects it.

That’s the thing.

Lingsha stays. She listens. She allows it.

She even loves you.

You’re sure of that.

But loving you and showing it have never been the same thing for her.

At first, there were signs.

Subtle ones.

A gift here. A quiet gesture there. The way she would linger just a second longer than necessary when you held her hand.

You held onto those moments like proof.

Like evidence.

But over time—

they stopped.

No more small surprises.
No more quiet attempts.
Just… presence.

Consistent. Stable.

Comfortable.

Too comfortable.

You tell yourself she’s just like that. That she struggles with expression. That love doesn’t always look the same.

You repeat it until it sounds reasonable.

Until it sounds fair.

Until it starts to hurt less.

(It doesn’t.)

So one day—

you stop.

No good morning messages.

No soft touches.

No “I love you” slipping out of your mouth like second nature.

You pull back everything.

Not to punish her.

Just to see.

Just to know if she would notice the absence of something you’ve always given so freely.

Hours pass.

Then a day.

Then another.

Lingsha doesn’t panic.

She doesn’t reach for you the way you always reach for her.

She doesn’t fill the silence.

She just looks at you, calm as always, eyes steady—

and asks, quietly,

“Are you feeling unwell?”

That’s it.

Not “I miss you.”

Not “What’s wrong between us?”

Just concern.

Measured. Distant. Careful.

Like she’s observing you from the outside instead of standing inside the relationship with you.

And it—

breaks something small in your chest.

Because you know she’s trying.

You know this is her version of care.

You know she’s not ignoring you.

You know she’s not cruel.

But it still feels like standing in front of a locked door—

knowing someone is on the other side—

and realizing they don’t know how to open it.

So you nod.

You tell her you’re fine.

Because asking for more feels selfish.

Because expecting more feels unfair.

Because loving Lingsha means accepting the way she is.

Even if it means—

loving her a little more quietly now.

Just so it doesn’t hurt as much.