The days between Klaus and Tulip grew heavier, as if the silence was a weight pressing on them both.
Klaus woke up reaching for his phone, hoping to see a message from her. Instead, he found the cold blue
light of an empty screen. His chest tightened every time a notification arrived — only to find it wasn't from
her.
He thought back to all the moments they'd shared: the late-night talks that stretched into dawn, her head
resting on his shoulder, the way she smiled when she read a new poem aloud. How could it all feel so far
away now?
Tulip, too, wrestled with her own confusion.
She cared for Klaus deeply — more than she wanted to admit. His kindness, his vulnerability, the way he
looked at her like she was the only person in the room. But the pressure of school, the memories of past
heartbreak, and the fear of losing herself pulled her away.
Some nights, she would lie awake staring at her phone, torn between the urge to reach out and the need
for space. She wanted to be honest, but the words felt too heavy, too fragile.
One afternoon, they met by chance in the library. Klaus's heart soared when she smiled — a genuine, if
tired, smile.
"I missed you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Tulip looked down, fingers tracing the spine of a book.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "It's not that I don't care. I'm just… scared."
"Scared of what?" Klaus asked gently.
"Of losing myself. Of getting hurt again. Of not being enough."
Klaus reached out, taking her hand in his.
"You're more than enough," he said firmly. "And I'm not going anywhere."
Tulip's eyes glistened with unshed tears.
For a moment, the distance between them seemed to shrink — but the cracks remained, fragile and
uncertain.