That’s when regret started to creep in.

But by then, the version of me who used to reach for her was already gone.

And what replaced him was harder to move.

The first thing she noticed was the quiet in the kitchen—not silence, but absence of emotion.

I still made coffee. Still asked about breakfast. Still handled daily routines. I wasn’t cold—I was functional. And there’s something unsettling about kindness without connection. It removes every excuse.

“You’re acting strange,” she said one Saturday.

“How?” I asked, not even looking up.

“You know.”

“No,” I replied calmly.

That frustrated her. She wanted something obvious—anger, resentment, something she could label and dismiss. Instead, she got composure.

The second shift happened at a dinner with friends.

She reached for my hand while laughing. A month earlier, that would’ve meant everything to me. This time, I let her touch me briefly, then pulled away.

She noticed.

Later in the car, she asked, “Did I do something?”

“No,” I said.

Technically true. By then, I had stopped seeing it as something she was doing—and started seeing it as something she was choosing.

That distinction changes everything.

Another week passed.

She began putting in effort—subtle changes in how she dressed, how she carried herself, the way she lingered near me. One evening, wrapped in a towel, she asked if I wanted to watch a movie.

Once, I would’ve read that as an invitation.

Now, I heard uncertainty… maybe even fear.

“Sure,” I said. “Pick something.”

Her expression dropped.

That’s when she realized this wasn’t temporary.

Then came the jealousy—not because of another woman, but because I became… calm.

I slept better. Started running. Read more. I laughed more easily, because I wasn’t carrying around the weight of unreturned affection anymore.