December came quietly, without snow—just wind sharp enough to make the city flinch.  

Emily had always liked winter. It made everything feel honest. Cold didn’t lie; it simply reminded you to hold tighter.

But lately, Ryan’s warmth had become harder to reach.

At first, it was subtle.  

Fewer calls. Shorter texts.  

The kind of shift you can’t point to but still feel like gravity tugging a little stronger.  

He was busier—she knew that. His company had landed a major project, one that kept him on late calls and endless flights.  

He told her, *“It’s just temporary.”*  

She nodded, told him she understood.  

And she did.  

Mostly.

But understanding and comfort weren’t the same thing.  

Their messages became practical.  

Less *I miss you*, more *Did you eat?*  

Less laughter, more silence between dots of typing.  

When he called, his voice sounded tired, distracted—like he was always halfway somewhere else.  

She’d catch herself filling in his pauses, keeping the conversation alive out of habit.  

Sometimes, when he said, *“Sorry, I’ve gotta go,”*  

she’d smile and say, *“Of course.”*  

Then hang up and stare at her phone, waiting for it to light up again even when she knew it wouldn’t.  

Jess noticed before Emily admitted it.  

“You’re doing the thing,” she said over drinks one night.  

“What thing?”  

“The emotionally spiraling but pretending-to-be-fine thing.”  

“I’m not spiraling.”  

“Right. And I’m not drinking this margarita.”  

Emily groaned. “He’s just… busy.”  

“Busy people still text.”  

“It’s different.”  

“It’s not that different, babe.”  

Emily hated that Jess was right.  

She also hated that she cared this much again.

At work, she buried herself in noise.  

Music. Customers. Shaking cocktails like it was cardio for the soul.  

But sometimes, between orders, she’d check her phone for no reason.  

Nothing.  

She’d delete his old messages, only to scroll through their photos five minutes later.  

It wasn’t heartbreak—at least not yet.  

It was the slow ache of someone slipping away one unread text at a time.  

Ryan wasn’t trying to disappear.  

He told himself that every day.  

But the truth was, he was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally.  

The new project consumed everything. Deadlines bled into weekends; meetings blurred into nights.  

He’d stare at his phone, wanting to call, but by the time he was done with work, it was 2 a.m. in New York.  

He didn’t want to wake her.  

So he didn’t.  

And she didn’t know that silence was his way of trying not to fail her again.  

One Thursday night, Emily texted: *You okay? Haven’t heard from you in a few days.*  

He read it immediately.  

Started typing. Stopped.  

Started again. Stopped again.  

Finally, he sent: *Just swamped. Promise I’m fine.*  

She stared at the screen, thumb hovering.  

Then typed: *Miss you anyway.*  

He saw it.  

Didn’t reply until the next morning.  

*Miss you too. Will call soon.*  

“Soon” had started to sound like an empty drawer.  

A week later, he did call.  

Late for her, early for him.  

She answered half-asleep, hair messy, voice soft.  

“Hey,” he said. “Sorry, it’s been crazy.”  

“I figured.”  

“How are you?”  

“Good. Busy. Same.”  

“Good.”  

The pause between them stretched.  

Too polite. Too distant.  

She tried to joke, “Do I need to book an appointment on your calendar now?”  

He chuckled, tired. “Might help.”  

She smiled. It wasn’t funny.  

It wasn’t supposed to hurt that much, either.

After the call, she couldn’t sleep.  

Her brain replayed every small thing—his tone, his sigh, the way he didn’t ask when she’d visit next.  

She told herself not to overthink.  

But thinking too much was her second language.

A few days later, she mailed him a small sketch—one she’d made during a quiet shift.  

It was of two people sitting back-to-back, a skyline between them.  

On the bottom, she’d written: *Still facing the same direction.*  

He didn’t reply right away.  

A week passed.  

Then two.  

When a message finally came, it was short: *Got it. Beautiful.*  

Nothing else.  

No *thank you*, no *I miss you*, no *I love you.*  

She stared at those two words until her eyes blurred.  

Then put the phone down,  

and for the first time in months,  

didn’t reach for it again.

Meanwhile, Ryan was staring at the same sketch in his hotel room,  

thumb tracing the pencil lines like they could explain what he couldn’t say.  

He wanted to tell her everything—how the work pressure felt like drowning,  

how every night he dreamed of her voice,  

how the silence wasn’t indifference but fear.  

But when he tried to type it out, nothing sounded right.  

How do you explain loving someone and still failing to show it?

The next morning, he finally wrote:  

*Sorry I’ve been distant. I don’t know how to balance it all. But I think about you every day.*  

He hesitated, then hit send.  

Hours passed before she replied:  

*I know. Just don’t forget I’m still here.*  

He read it twice,  

and for the first time in weeks,  

he exhaled without guilt.

But somewhere in the quiet,  

both of them knew—  

something had shifted.  

Love was still there,  

but it had started to drift.  

Not away,  

just apart.