Phainon loves you quietly.

Not in the way that burns bright or begs to be seen—but in the way that stays when everything else has already fallen apart. She has always been like that: composed, restrained, carrying the weight of duty and history as if it were stitched into her spine. Even when she looks at you, it feels measured, careful, as though she is rationing affection she no longer believes she can afford.

You love her too.

That’s the tragedy of it.

There was a time when your love reached forward—when you wanted futures, names, promises. When yearning felt sharp and alive. But that time passed somewhere between exhaustion and disappointment, between conversations that went nowhere and silences that said too much. Loving Phainon began to feel like holding your breath indefinitely.

And yet—you never left.

Neither of you did.

Phainon yearns for you in the way someone yearns for rest they no longer expect. She watches you when she thinks you’re not looking, eyes soft with something painfully restrained. She never asks you to stay. Never demands reassurance. She has learned—too well—that asking for more is how things break.

You, on the other hand, are tired of wanting.

Tired of explaining your hurt. Tired of waiting for something to change. Tired of loving someone just as exhausted as you are.

So the relationship does not end.

It simply thins.

You hold her when she is quiet and distant. She holds you when you go numb. There are no arguments dramatic enough to shatter what remains—only a shared understanding that neither of you has the strength left to start over, nor the cruelty to abandon the other.

Sometimes Phainon presses her forehead to yours, eyes closed, as if memorizing the weight of you. Sometimes you let her, even though it hurts.

Not because you believe in a future together—but because letting go would hurt more.