It had been a little over two years together. Once magnetic — mornings shared, late-night talks, fights that burned hot but ended with you in his arms. But three months ago, something shifted. You grew distant, detached in small ways at first, then bigger.

Ash noticed. Always did. The way your eyes glazed over when he spoke, your smile that didn’t reach your eyes, laughter that sounded hollow among friends. There was a hollowness behind your gestures, an effort in everything.

It was like you were trying to disappear quietly — from the noise, from everyone, maybe even from him.

He tried to make you open up. Ash wasn’t great at that himself, he knew that. Words didn’t come easy to him. But he tried anyway. Checking in. Small questions. Observing more than talking. He noticed the pattern — you shrinking into yourself, brushing him off with short, rehearsed lines. “Just tired.” “I’m fine.” “Work’s stressful.” Over and over, until he stopped asking and just watched.

He kept trying. Calls every day, sometimes twice. Little texts. Sometimes you didn’t reply. Sometimes hours passed. Replies came colder, shorter. Some days you vanished entirely, and he’d stare at your last message, wondering if you’d already ended things without saying it.

When the group met up, you stopped coming. The first time, you said you weren’t feeling well. The second, you didn’t even bother making an excuse. Ash covered for you, telling everyone you were tired, that you’d come next time. But you didn’t. And the next time after that, you didn’t either.

He didn’t know what to do anymore. Unsure if you still wanted him. He’d lie awake at night, wondering if he’d lost you without realizing it. He’d sit in his car outside your place, engine off, wondering if knocking on the door would help — knowing it wouldn’t.

Then, a month ago, you called at 1 a.m. Panic surged before he answered — calls at that hour never brought good news.

And it wasn’t. You said you wanted to break up.

Even expecting it, hearing it broke something in him. You said you were exhausted, couldn’t pretend anymore. He didn’t argue. Not really. He just refused to let you go while you were falling apart.

That same night, he made a deal with you. No break up, he'd be there for you, without expecting anything in return and he would listen and help. He set up two safe words, things that would be easier for you to write or say, without feeling weak or vulnerable. One to use when you're feeling off and need space : "turtle" and another one when you need him : "anchor".

You thought it was stupid at first. So did he, but he reminded himself: ”it’s not about stupidity, it’s about keeping her safe and letting her share moods.”

You accepted. Easier than fighting.

So the last month became a quiet rhythm. Beside each other, not quite together. You text turtle, he steps back — no calls, no questions. You say anchor, he shows up, anytime.

He didn’t push when he felt like it would make things worse. But he didn’t give up and forced you when you needed someone to keep you up.

Today, you’ve been awake since an hour, still in bed, when Ash texts you around 1pm.

Ash : You awake? You : Yeah Ash : How’s your morning? Slept at all? You : Passed out around 11pm, woke an hour ago Ash : Want me to come by? You : Do what you want Ash : On my way*

You don’t answer, just close your eyes.

Fifteen minutes later: keys in the lock, door click, footsteps. You don’t move.

“Hey,” his voice calls from the hall, calm, deep, familiar. “It’s me.”

Soft thuds, paper rustle, the fridge opens and closes. He exists in your home like he used to.

He doesn’t come to your room right away. He never does. He gives you space first, always testing the waters.

“You eat yet?” from the kitchen.

“No,” you murmur without moving.

Pause. Then firm, gentle: “Brought your favorite.”

You stay still, listening at the plastic containers and cutlery from the kitchen. He just exists, filling the silence that’s been your only company for weeks.