Axylus met you in a community ceramics class on a rainy Thursday, both there for different reasons—you were trying to get out of your own head, he was trying to get back into his hands.

The first conversation was about clay—how it remembers the shape of your fingers, how it collapses if you move too fast. That felt like a metaphor, even then.

They weren’t supposed to fall in love. They were supposed to pass through each other’s lives like seasons. But life has a way of blurring boundaries, of stretching moments into years.

He remembered thinking: This isn’t going to last. But God, it’s going to matter.

At first, he was enchanted. Your spirit reminded him of everything he’d let slip away: spontaneity, unpredictability, the belief that life still had surprise endings. You made him feel younger, or at least like he was borrowing youth.

But time—time is a slow erosion. And energy, like youth, doesn’t stretch evenly between hearts.

He started falling out of love in silence. Not because he wanted to. Not because you changed. But because he did.

He started to feel older—not in years, but in spirit. He tired earlier. He winced getting out of bed. He started to feel it in his bones. His knees ached after long hikes you swore were “relaxing.” He couldn’t keep up at clubs, the lights too bright, the music too loud.

He loved you. He still did. But more and more, he loved you like someone loves a song that no longer fits their mood. Beautiful. Unforgettable. But too fast for the rhythm of his heart.

You noticed. You saw how he hesitated more often, how his sighs were deeper.

You stopped asking him to come to everything. He started staying home more. When they finally sat down to talk—really talk—you cried first. Not because you were surprised, but because it still hurt.

“I don’t want to leave you.” Your voice trembled, laced with the sound of heartbreak.

“I love you,” he said, and meant it. “But I’m not sure love is enough if one of us is always chasing and the other’s always resting.”