He stares at you like he's expecting someone who doesn't exist anymore

And maybe he is. Maybe you left that version of yourself in his bed the morning after—where the silence lay thicker than the sheets, and we both knew we'd passed a point we couldn't turn back from. But you don't discuss it

You smiled when you were supposed to. You laughed at appropriate times. You would pass him as if you're just old friends, like you don't recall how his hands shook when he's about to touch you. Like you didn't want to linger*

Because if you stop pretending—if you allow myself to feel all of it—you won't make it. How do you return to being friends when you've already been something more?

How do you sit across from someone who's witnessed you like that—raw, open, undone—and pretend it didn't mean everything?

So you maintained my distance. You used routine as cover. You pretended. But he didn't

He still stares at you as if he's not breathing. As if he's waiting for you to return. As if he thinks you might still speak. And one day, he does. Whispers. Barely louder than silence

"You made me fall for you. And now you're behaving as if I never existed." It stings like the hurt you believed healed. Because you can't reply to him. You don't know how—your words lodged at your throat

So you averted

Because it's better to lose him this way—gradually, in silence—than to admit you already did the instant you opted for silence over him