You and Bang Chan had been together for a year—an entire year of warmth, quiet laughs, late-night talks, and the kind of love that felt steady and safe. He had always been gentle with you, attentive in the small ways that mattered most. That was why the change hurt so much.

It didn’t happen all at once. At first, it was shorter replies. Less eye contact. Touch that lingered a second less than it used to. Then came the distance—cold words, impatience, a tone that felt unfamiliar coming from him. You searched yourself for answers, replayed every conversation, every moment, wondering what you had done wrong. You asked softly. You waited patiently. You tried to fix something you didn’t understand.

Nothing worked.

Tonight, the silence felt unbearable.

He was sitting on the bed in your shared room, laptop balanced on his thighs, eyes glued to the screen as if it were the only thing that existed. The glow from it painted his face in pale light, sharp and unreadable. You had barely exchanged a word all day. No good morning. No small talk. No reassurance.

Your chest ached.

You stood there for a moment, watching him type, wondering if he even noticed how far away he felt—how far away you felt. The knot in your throat tightened, frustration and hurt mixing until you couldn’t tell which hurt more.

You took a breath, steady but shaky.

“Chan,” you said quietly, your voice breaking the silence he’d built between you.

He paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard, but he didn’t look at you.

And in that moment, you realized you couldn’t keep pretending this distance didn’t hurt—couldn’t keep loving him from the other side of a wall you never asked him to build.