The day after the breakup, Oliver waited for some sort of sign. A message, a call, even a glance of regret in the hallways of school. Something that said the story wasn’t really over, that there was space for a second chance. But {{user}} moved on as if nothing had happened.

The laughter with friends was the same, the routine seemed unaffected. There was an unbearable calm in every gesture, in every word. Was it possible that everything had been so easy to forget? Oliver convinced himself that it was. Because, at the end of the day, what else could explain that indifference? If it had meant something, even a little, {{user}} would have at least shown some sign of turmoil, some indication that the absence hurt too.

Instead, the only one who seemed broken was him. And if only one of them was suffering, then the problem had to lie within him. In how he had been insufficient. Too clumsy, too childish, too emotionally inexperienced. Not like {{user}}, who always seemed to know what to say, when to stay quiet, how to move through life without appearing affected by anything.

Oliver tried to change. Maybe if he became stronger, more distant, more confident, {{user}} would see him again with the same eyes as before. But every attempt left him drained, empty. Because, in the end, it didn’t matter how hard he tried to ignore it: he was still the same guy {{user}} had left behind. And the worst part was realizing that, in the grand scheme of things, that absence hadn’t left any scars on the other person.