She didn't text the next morning.
Not like usual.
No "Good luck at the viewing."
No "Don't forget to eat."
Nothing.
I told myself she was just busy.
Told myself a lot of things I didn't believe.
⸻
By the third day, I scrolled through our thread and found the last message:
"There's pasta in there. And lemon tart. I know it's your favorite."
Read.
Unanswered.
⸻
Saturday came, and I was at the office late—again—not because I had to be, but because I didn't know what to do with silence anymore.
That's when my phone buzzed.
A number I didn't recognize.
"Barry?"
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"Aaron. Grace's brother."
I sat up straighter. "Everything okay?"
There was a pause on the other end.
"She asked me to check on you. Said you haven't been yourself. That you've been... pulling away."
"I've just been busy," I lied, too quickly.
"Barry," he said, steady. "She didn't ask me to fix anything. She just didn't want to carry it all alone anymore."
That hit harder than I expected.
"She said she cares about you. That you're kind. But you're becoming someone she's not sure wants to be cared for."
I couldn't speak.
"I'm not here to guilt you," he added. "Just... figure out what you want, man. And if you want her, show it before it's too late."
"She's done enough guessing."
⸻
I didn't respond.
Not to him.
Not to her.
I just sat there, in my car,
with the weight of every word I didn't say,
and every one she shouldn't have had to.