There's something about night that loosens the tongue. Maybe it's the way everything slows down — the noise, the light, the expectations. Maybe it's because when the world sleeps, the things you hide during the day start crawling out on their own.
On a call. Late. One of those accidental long ones where no one really meant to stay, but neither of us wanted to leave.
She had been quiet for a moment, then asked,
"Can I ask something personal?"
I said yes, without even thinking.
"What happened in your last relationship?"
It wasn't the kind of question you brace for. Not from a girl who once waved at you across a hallway. Not from someone who used to be just a contact, just gist. But I didn't hesitate.
"She left after quite a while," I said.
I didn't dress it up. I didn't water it down.
"How long?" She persisted
I never liked to say it, after spending that amount of time with one person, it'd make me seem so insecure in future relationships, Hesitant but still confessed "three years".
"Three years?" Her voice sharpened.
"And she left just like that?"
I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because sometimes, that's the only sound pain knows how to make.
"Yeah," I said.
"No warning, no real reason. Just said she didn't feel the same anymore. Like something switched off."
She didn't speak immediately. I could hear her breathing, hear her thoughts loading through the silence. Then she said,
"After that long? That's wickedness, please. How do you leave someone after three years? What were you doing the whole time?"
It surprised me — how fiercely she said it. Like the betrayal was hers too.
She continued,
"If you stay that long, you either stay forever or you explain properly. Not just disappear like a ghost."
I stayed quiet for a while, letting her words rest on me. Not many people had ever defended me like that. Especially not about that.
"It's why I act like I do sometimes," I admitted.
"I don't expect people to stay. I just try not to get too comfortable."
That was when she sighed — soft, like she felt something she didn't know how to say.
"My ex wasn't that deep," she said after a while.
"He was alright. We dated for a while. It didn't end badly, just… ended. No spark. Nothing that really stuck."
Then she added,
"But you—what you had was deep. If I had that, I'd never let it go."
I didn't know what to say to that. I wasn't sure if she meant it for real or was just being kind. But either way, it hit something in me — that strange spot between healing and hoping.
And for the first time, I realized we weren't just two people who waved.
We were two people who had been through things. Two stories still unfolding, lines crossing slowly, delicately.
It didn't mean anything.
But maybe it was starting to.