Kyle grinned, oblivious as always, setting the bag on the table like we were starring in a commercial for healthy relationships. “Your favorite,” he said, pulling out the containers. “I figured I owed you one.”
“Thanks.” I busied myself with the lids, pretending the smell of curry didn’t make my stomach twist with guilt.
We sat in the break room, the buzz of the old refrigerator filling the silence between his stories. He talked about training — how Coach Lawson said his precision was improving, how the national scouts were watching his next match. Then about brand deals, sponsorship talks, a potential interview with a local station. His voice had that rhythm I used to love, that fire I once found intoxicating.
I smiled in all the right places, nodded when he glanced at me for approval.
But somewhere along the way, that rhythm had changed.
He was here, but he wasn’t really with me. His words filled the room, but they didn’t reach me. It was like trying to listen through glass — I could see the shape of it, but not the warmth.
He reached across the table, brushing my hand. “You okay? You seem tired.”
“Just a long week,” I said, swallowing the truth. I’m tired of being the only one still reaching.
He nodded, already checking his watch. “You’re working too hard. You should relax more. Go out with your friends or something.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Maybe I will.”
Maybe I did.
Kyle watched me for a moment between bites, his brow creasing. “You okay? You’ve been quiet lately.”
I forced a small smile. “Just tired.”
He frowned — the kind of half-sympathetic look people give when they’re already thinking about something else. “You’re always tired. Maybe you should take a break from the foundation stuff.”
I blinked at him. “That’s not really an option.”
“I mean,” he said lightly, shrugging, “you don’t have to fix everything yourself.”
Something inside me bristled — not anger, exactly, just the ache of being misunderstood. “I’m not fixing everything,” I said softly. “I’m building something.”
He nodded, but I could tell it didn’t quite land. He didn’t see the difference. Or maybe he didn’t care to.
“Anyway,” he said, leaning back, the shift in his tone so seamless it almost made me dizzy, “Coach thinks the scouts might show up next week. If I play it right, it could be huge.”
“Yeah,” I murmured. “That’s great, Kyle.”
He smiled, all bright ambition again, and I smiled back because that’s what I’d always done — support, encourage, stay steady while he chased the next summit.
But something about it felt different now. The warmth wasn’t there.
He used to make me feel seen. Now I feel like I’m interrupting his schedule.
He stood a few minutes later, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”
“Sure.”
The door closed behind him, and the silence that followed didn’t ache like heartbreak. It just… echoed.
I sat at my desk, staring at the takeout container still warm from his hands, the meal we were supposed to share. The smell turned my stomach.
My heart didn’t hurt the way it should. It just felt quiet — like the part of me that used to reach for him had finally gone still.
The clock ticked somewhere above me, steady and indifferent. I didn’t move for a long time. Then, before I could stop myself, I whispered into the empty room, “What’s happening to me?”
A voice answered from the doorway.
