Mira
Adrian used to listen to me.
At least, that's what I tell myself when I think back to the beginning. I remember his eyes on me, attentive, focused, as if every word I said mattered. I remember how carefully he asked questions, how confidently he held my hand, how safe I felt inside the idea of us.
Now, he mostly nods.
We sit across from each other at the small table in his apartment, dinner cooling between us. I talk about my day without really meaning to. My voice fills the silence because I'm afraid of what happens when it doesn't.
He checks his phone while I speak.
I pause mid sentence, waiting for him to look up. He doesn't. I finish the thought anyway, softer this time, like I've already apologized for taking up space.
"That's good," he says absently, eyes still on the screen.
I smile. Automatically. Like my face learned how to do it without asking me first.
I tell myself he's tired. He's always tired. Work drains him. People drain him. Life drains him. Loving him, apparently, means understanding that I come last when everything else needs him more.
I clear the plates quietly. I don't ask why he hasn't touched his food. I don't ask what's on his phone. I don't ask anything anymore.
Questions have consequences.
Later, I sit beside him on the couch, close enough that our arms almost touch. Almost. He leans away just slightly, not enough to notice if you weren't looking for it. I notice.
I always notice.
When I rest my head against his shoulder, he stiffens for half a second before relaxing again. The movement is so small, anyone else might miss it. I feel it like a bruise.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says. "Just tired."
Always tired.
I nod, even though something inside me wants to ask when he stopped being tired with me.
I scroll through my phone, pretending not to care. I show him a video I think is funny. He hums in response. I tell myself that counts as engagement.
It didn't used to be like this.
There was a time I felt chosen.
Now I feel tolerated.
When I leave that night, he doesn't walk me to the door. He tells me to text when I get home, but doesn't wait for the message. I know because when I send it, he doesn't reply.
I stare at the screen longer than I should.
On the ride home, I replay every moment of the evening, searching for the mistake. I always assume there is one. Something I said too much. Something I didn't say enough. Some invisible rule I forgot to follow.
By the time I reach my room, I am exhausted in a way sleep never fixes.
I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, listening to the quiet. My phone rests beside me, face down. I don't turn it over.
In the silence, a thought slips in gently, without accusation.
I feel calmer when he isn't here.
The realization startles me.
I sit up, suddenly alert, as if I've done something wrong just by thinking it. I argue with myself immediately. Of course I'm calmer. There's no pressure, no expectations, no need to constantly measure myself against his moods.
That's normal, right?
But another thought follows, softer, heavier.
Why does love feel like something I have to survive?
I think about how often I choose my words carefully. How often I swallow disappointment before it can reach my mouth. How rarely I feel held, even when his arms are around me.
I still love him. I know I do. That hasn't disappeared.
But somewhere between trying harder and asking for less, I've started to fade.
And for the first time, I let myself wonder if love is supposed to feel like this at all.