Things didn't explode.
They thinned.
That was worse.
Aira felt it over the next few days—the way conversations stayed careful, the way laughter didn't linger, the way everything important hovered just below the surface.
They were still together.
Still talking.
Still walking side by side.
But something fragile was forming between them.
Like glass stretched too tight.
Reyhan noticed it too.
He was trying.
Really trying.
But every time he opened his mouth to say something honest, fear rewrote the sentence before it escaped.
Don't mess this up.
Don't say the wrong thing.
Don't need too much.
And so he said… less.
Aira watched that happen.
And for the first time, she felt tired.
Not angry.
Not dramatic.
Just tired of guessing.
They were sitting on the steps after school when it finally surfaced.
"You don't argue anymore," Aira said quietly.
Reyhan frowned. "Is that bad?"
"You don't react anymore," she corrected.
"It feels like you're preparing to leave instead of staying."
That hit.
"I'm still here," he said.
"But you're not with me," she replied.
Reyhan stood up, pacing once before stopping.
"I don't know how to do this without hurting you," he said.
"Every option feels like a risk."
Aira nodded slowly.
"That's what being here is," she said.
"Risk."
He looked at her, frustrated.
"And what if I fail?" he asked.
"What if I don't notice something in time again?"
Aira swallowed.
"Then tell me you're struggling," she said.
"Don't go quiet and let me feel it alone."
Silence pressed down hard.
Reyhan finally said something he'd been avoiding—
"I don't want to be the reason you get hurt."
Aira stood too.
"And I don't want to be the person you slowly detach from without telling," she replied.
Their voices weren't raised.
That scared her.
Because this felt like the kind of moment where things cracked quietly.
"I need to know when you're pulling away," she said.
"Before it becomes permanent."
Reyhan looked torn.
"I don't know how to give warnings," he admitted.
"I just… shut down."
Aira's chest tightened painfully.
"Then tell me that," she said.
"Tell me you're shutting down. Don't leave me guessing."
He nodded slowly.
"I don't want this to end," he said.
"Neither do I," Aira replied.
"But if it does… I don't want it to happen silently."
They stood there, the space between them thick with unsaid things.
Nothing broke.
Not yet.
But the cracks were visible now.
And ignoring them wouldn't keep things whole.
RULE #59: Don't break without warning.
Because losing someone slowly,
without understanding why, hurts the most.