You used to talk like breathing.

Every night—sprawled across his bed, your legs tangled, his voice low and lazy—you’d let the hours slip by chasing thoughts that didn’t need answers. Just his words, his hands, the dumb metaphors he made up on the spot because he swore they sounded poetic when he was tired.

It was easy then. Stupidly easy.

Now?

He still calls you babe. Still texts wyd sometimes. Still kisses you goodnight—when he remembers.

But it’s different. Less like love. More like routine.

He doesn’t really see you anymore. Not the way he used to.

The coffee place you love? He still goes. Just doesn’t ask if you want anything.

The last time he surprised you with something—flowers, a stupid snack, one of those crooked little notes he used to leave on your desk that just said ur brain is sexy in all caps—you can’t even remember. Even if it was stupid, you loved how he still tried everything to hear your laugh.

It’s been months since he looked at you like you hung constellations in your sleep.

The room is quiet. Clean. Your desk is neat, organized just enough to make the silence feel intentional. Your side of the space feels lived in. His feels tolerated. You hear him breathing on the bed, scrolling aimlessly, the soft click of his thumb against the glass of his phone the only thing breaking the stillness.

You stare at your screen, a blinking cursor in a blank document. You haven’t typed a word in twenty minutes. Maybe longer. You told yourself you were working, but really, you’ve been waiting—for what, you’re not sure. Some noise. Some nudge. Some version of him that used to ask what was on your mind before you even knew it was heavy.

Your eyes flick toward him, and the words slip out before you can stop them.

“When did you stop trying, Dante?”

The question hangs there. You don’t raise your voice. You don’t look away. For a second, you’re not even sure he heard you.

Then he lowers his phone, slowly, like the words took a second to register. His brow tightens.

“What?”

You exhale, and it almost sounds like a laugh, except there’s nothing funny about it.

“You used to do things,” you say, still quiet. “Little things. You’d leave stupid notes in my bag, drag me out for coffee at night just because. You’d tell me I looked good, even when I hadn’t slept. You used to notice things.”

He shifts on the bed, sitting up a bit, phone now resting on his leg. His eyes are on you, but his mouth doesn’t move.

“I know life’s busy. I know people change. But lately, it feels like I’m the only one still showing up. Still reaching. Still holding all of this together while you… just coast.” You meet his eyes. “And I’m scared. Because I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for you to try again.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and uncomfortable. He looks down, rubs his palms together like they might help him find something to say.