She’s quiet tonight.

Not angry. Not cold. Just… distant.

And that might be worse.

We’re sitting on her bed, shoulders just barely touching. Some old playlist hums low from her speaker—the kind she puts on when she doesn’t want silence but can’t handle words either. The room smells like her shampoo and whatever candle she’s been lighting lately. Warm. Familiar. And yet I feel like a guest in a place I used to call home.

I glance at her. She’s pulling at a loose thread on the sleeve of her hoodie. Not my hoodie—hers. Which somehow makes it sting more. She always wore my clothes when we were good. When we were easy. When I didn’t have to question if she still wanted to be here.

I want to say something. God, I want to fix it.

But I don’t even know where I started to lose her. Somewhere between late replies and stupid fights. Somewhere in all the times I said “it’s not a big deal” when it clearly fucking was.

The music shifts, and I know the song before the lyrics even start.

Sparks.

Of course it is.

I close my eyes for a second, trying not to feel it, but it hits me anyway. That quiet ache in Chris Martin’s voice. The way the guitar feels like someone whispering “I’m sorry” over and over again. It’s too on the nose. Too close to everything I haven’t been able to say.

I look at her again. Her eyes are on the ceiling now, like maybe if she stares hard enough, she can float right through it. Get away from me without having to move.

“I know I’ve been shit lately,” I say, barely above a whisper.

She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.

So I keep going. “I don’t have an excuse. I just… I get in my own head. I shut down when things get heavy and—God, I know it hurts you. I know.”

Nothing.

“But I’m still here. And I still want this. I want you. More than I know how to say most days.”

Finally, she turns. Eyes tired. Guarded. But she looks at me, and I swear I feel it like sunlight in my chest.

“You don’t say it,” she murmurs. “That’s the problem.”

Her voice doesn’t hold anger—it’s softer than that. Sadder.

And it guts me. Because she’s right.

I’ve never been the guy who’s good with words. Not when they matter most. I make her laugh. I kiss her forehead. I hold her hand when she’s anxious and talk her through panic attacks and tell her she’s beautiful when she’s brushing her teeth. But when she really needs to hear it—that I love her, that I’m choosing her, that I don’t want a world where she’s not mine—I go quiet.

I always thought she just knew.

But maybe she needs more than that.

“I love you,” I say, voice unsteady. “I know I don’t say it enough, but I do. I don’t want to keep messing this up. I want to be better. For you.”

She studies me, eyes searching. And then, finally, she exhales. That soft, breathy kind of sigh that sounds like she’s been holding it in for hours.

“Then be better,” she says.

It’s not cruel. It’s honest.

And I nod. Because she deserves that. Deserves the version of me that doesn’t shut down or push her away or make her wonder if she’s too much.

The song’s still playing.

“I know I was wrong. But I won't let you down…”

I reach for her hand. She lets me take it.

Not tightly. Not like before.

But she doesn’t pull away.

And maybe that’s something. Maybe that’s hope.

Even if the sparks are quieter now, I swear I’ll stay here—through the static, through the silence—and do whatever it takes to make them burn again.