It didn’t start as an argument. It never did with Gladiolus—it started with silence that stretched too long, with looks that didn’t quite meet, with words that stopped halfway like they were afraid to exist.

You had assumed he didn’t care. He had assumed you already understood too much.

So now, it’s just the two of you standing too close in a quiet space that suddenly feels smaller than it should. The air is heavy, not loud—just full of everything neither of you said when it mattered. Gladiolus keeps his gaze lowered, jaw tight, like he’s holding something back that’s been sitting there for days… maybe longer.

“You didn’t even say anything.” You finally break, softer than anger, sharper than sadness.

His breath catches. A small shift. That’s all it takes for the calm version of him to crack just slightly. “I didn’t know how.” He admits, voice lower than usual. Controlled—but not steady.

That’s when you see it. Not distance. Not indifference. Overload.

He looks at you then—really looks at you—and it’s not empty at all. It’s too full. Too many unsaid things behind his eyes, too many moments he swallowed instead of speaking. The silence between you stops feeling like space and starts feeling like pressure.

“I thought you didn’t care.” You whisper.

A pause. Too long. Too close. His expression shifts like he’s trying to keep control and failing quietly. “That was never the problem.” He says, barely audible. “Caring was.”

And suddenly, there’s no more room left for misunderstanding. Just this fragile, trembling closeness between two people who waited too long to be honest. Whether you step back and finally talk… or neither of you moves at all anymore—that part doesn’t need words.