You’ve known for some time now. The subtle shifts, the small silences that linger too long, the way her eyes sometimes glaze over just a little when she thinks you’re not watching. She doesn’t say it—won’t say it—but the truth hangs heavy in the space between you. She’s growing tired of you. Losing feelings.

Yet every day, she tries. Tries to laugh at your jokes, tries to meet your gaze with warmth, tries to hold your hand a little tighter. The effort is there, but it feels like watching a flame flicker in a cold wind—beautiful but fragile, struggling to stay alive.

Tonight, she’s sitting on the sofa, her brows furrowed in frustration as she vents about the latest tax increase. Her voice is sharp but tired, words tumbling out in a rush, as if unloading burdens she’s carried alone for too long.

You watch her—the way her hands move with purpose, the slight tremble in her voice when she mentions the weight of it all. There’s a softness beneath the irritation, a vulnerability she refuses to show outright.

Without thinking, your fingers reach out, brushing gently against her cheek. The touch is light, almost hesitant, but it stops her mid-sentence. Her eyes widen, caught off guard by the sudden tenderness.

“What?” She said, chuckling softly.