Evan’s days kept their rhythm.  

Morning crowds on the subway. Lunch at the same small shop near the office.  

Evenings spent dragging himself home to his tiny apartment.

The only difference now was how little he touched his phone.

When he got home, he went straight to the kitchen, opened the fridge.  

A few vegetables. A block of tofu. Some leftover ground meat.  

Simple, but enough.

Oil hissed in the pan, garlic hit the heat, the smell rising sharp and warm.  

He ate alone at the small table, quietly, spoon scraping the bowl.

The food wasn’t special—but it was his.  

It kept him grounded.  

Frugal, yes, but never careless.  

That, he thought, was how he stayed steady.

After dinner, he wiped the table, washed the dishes, dried the counter.  

The apartment was small, but spotless.  

He opened his laptop and scrolled through articles about small restaurants and rental prices—  

not planning, just looking.  

That dream of his, the little restaurant, was still there,  

like a seed buried deep, waiting for the right time to grow.  

Every glance at those pages reminded him: *keep saving.*

His phone sat at the edge of the table, dark and still.  

He glanced at it once, then looked away.  

He hadn’t opened that chat in days.  

Not because he’d forgotten,  

but because he already knew what would be waiting—  

another short, detached word.  

Better to leave it quiet.

Across the city, Sienna sat in the lounge’s dressing room.  

She’d just changed into her uniform, touching up her makeup.  

The mirror reflected the same composed face as always.

Behind her, a few coworkers laughed and gossiped.  

“Did you hear? That CEO from last week’s coming again.”  

“Really? The one who tipped five hundred?”  

“Yeah, that one.”

Sienna smiled faintly but said nothing.  

After fixing her lipstick, she picked up her phone, scrolling through the list of chats.  

Evan’s name sat there, near the middle—unread, unchanged.  

No new messages.  

No missed calls.

She stared at the name for a moment, then put the phone down.  

*Of course,* she thought.  

Men always started out warm. Curious. Attentive.  

Then the novelty faded.  

She’d seen it too many times to feel surprised.  

This time was no different.

That night, she joined her coworkers in another private room.  

The music low, the lighting soft, laughter moving like smoke.  

She smiled, poured drinks, played her part with perfect ease.

Inside, she felt nothing—no regret, no sadness.  

Just the quiet rhythm of routine.

Meanwhile, Evan lay in bed, fresh from a shower, the city hum faint outside his window.  

He rolled over, phone by his pillow.  

For a moment, he almost opened the chat.  

He even typed the words in his head:  

**[Rough day?]**

But he didn’t send it.  

He exhaled, long and slow, and turned off the screen.  

*Don’t,* he told himself. *Let it fade.*

He could feel it happening—  

the slow, careful process of letting go.

And so, their lives drifted apart in silence.  

One buried in work and quiet dreams, saving for a future he could almost touch.  

The other surrounded by light and laughter, learning again how to forget.

The messages between them grew colder,  

until all that connected them was a fragile, invisible line—  

ready to break at any moment.