Daniel noticed Amara had stopped bringing things up, he assumed that meant progress.
It had been weeks since the café incident. He remembered it vaguely—remembered feeling relieved when the conversation ended without drama. To him, that was a sign of compatibility.
"You're very understanding," he told her one evening as they sat together on her couch. "I appreciate that."
Amara smiled automatically. "Of course."
Daniel believed love was easier when it wasn't examined too closely. He liked that Amara didn't push him, didn't demand emotional explanations, didn't turn every disappointment into a conversation.
When work got busy, she adapted. When plans shifted, she adjusted. When he grew quiet, she filled the space gently instead of confronting it.
To Daniel, this felt like maturity.
He didn't know he was being trained.
One night, as they lay in bed, Amara asked softly, "Do you think we avoid hard conversations?"
Daniel laughed lightly. "Why would we need them if things are good?"
She turned onto her side. "Sometimes things look good because someone stops asking."
Daniel frowned. "You're overthinking again."
She let it go.
Daniel slept easily that night, comforted by the lack of tension.
He didn't realize that peace, when one person carries it alone, isn't peace at all.