It started with little things.
Late replies.
Missed calls.
Rescheduling dinner because "something came up at work."
Leaving her on read during conversations that used to have rhythm.
I told myself I was just tired.
That I was trying.
But the truth is, I'd begun slipping—back into the man I used to be.
She surprised me one Thursday evening.
Showed up at my place with a bag of food, a bottle of wine, and that smile that had gotten quieter lately.
"I thought we could have a lazy night," she said. "You've been stretched thin."
Instead of gratitude, my first reaction was irritation.
"I've got a call in twenty minutes," I muttered, scrolling through my phone. "Didn't think you'd drop by."
Her smile wavered, just a flicker.
"Oh. I can go—if it's a bad time."
I didn't say no.
I didn't say stay.
I just said, "Maybe we can do this another night."
She nodded slowly, then placed the bag on the table. "There's pasta in there. And lemon tart. I know it's your favorite."
And then she left.
No hug. No kiss.
Just a quiet click of the door.
That night, I didn't touch the food.
The call got canceled anyway.
And I sat there, wondering when exactly I forgot how to hold on to good things.