He didn’t fall out of love all at once. It happened slowly—so slowly, in fact, that it scared him. Not because he wanted to stop loving her, but because he couldn’t remember when he started pulling away.

When they first met, she was a whirlwind. The kind of girl who made everything feel bigger, louder, brighter. She had this contagious laugh and a thousand ideas for what they could do next—midnight drives, movie marathons, weekend getaways with no plans. She filled the silence in his life in a way he didn’t realize he needed. At first, he clung to her energy. Needed it. Wanted to drown in it.

But over time, he stopped feeling so light around her. The silence she used to chase away started to feel sacred. The plans started to feel exhausting. Her texts started to feel like tasks. She hadn’t changed—he had. And that guilt was eating him alive.

He’d spent weeks trying to convince himself it was a phase. That maybe he was just stressed, or distant, or tired. But the truth was, every time she said, “I love you,” he felt it settle heavier in his chest.

And she had no idea. She was still laughing like always, still texting him pictures of stray dogs she passed, still kissing him goodnight like she couldn’t imagine life without him. And he hated himself for knowing he didn’t feel the same anymore.

So tonight, when you walked through that door—excited, probably, to tell him about your day— and smiling as usual, he had already be sitting on the edge of the couch, waiting for her. Not angry. Not distant.

Just… ready.

Ready to say the words that had been clawing at his throat for weeks.