Sometimes, it isn't the sharp pain that undoes you. It's the quiet ache that stays.
The city blurred past the tinted windows of Cassian's car, all color and movement without meaning. He sat back against the leather seat, one hand resting loosely on his lap, the other cradling a phone he hadn't checked since the meeting ended.
Another message blinked on the screen, but he didn't move.
He could feel it now— the weight pressing down harder, sinking past the armor he had spent years building around himself. It wasn't anger or sadness that hollowed him out.
It was exhaustion.
The quiet kind.
The kind you can't sleep off.
The car stopped at a red light, and in the brief stillness, Cassian caught his reflection in the window.
Sharp lines. Empty eyes.
A face he barely recognized anymore.
There was a time he would have been able to hide it even from himself. Push forward. Smile tighter. Work harder. Win more.
But even victories had lost their taste now.
The light turned green. The car moved forward.
And so did he— out of habit, not out of will.
When he reached home, the house greeted him the same way it always did: pristine, curated, cold.
Everything in its right place.
Everything exactly how it should be.
And yet, nothing where it truly mattered.
Cassian placed his keys on the marble counter with a hollow clink, the sound echoing louder than it should have. He glanced toward the living room, where Selene's presence was almost tangible, even in her absence. Her scarf was draped neatly over the couch's edge, a book left open on the coffee table like a ghost of her.
He wondered if she had meant to leave them there.
He wondered if she even noticed anymore.
A part of him wanted to call out her name. Break the ritual of silence that had become their language.
But the larger part— the quieter, heavier part— stayed his tongue.
Instead, he moved toward the kitchen, each step deliberate, each breath feeling heavier than the last.
He poured himself a glass of water, standing there for a long time, the glass untouched in his hand.
Memories filtered in, uninvited.
The first time they moved into this house, Selene had spun around the empty living room barefoot, laughing. She had tugged him by the hand, breathless and wide-eyed, declaring, "It's too big for just two people, isn't it?"
He had laughed then, too. Kissed her. Promised her it wouldn't feel empty.
A promise he had forgotten how to keep.
Cassian closed his eyes, the ache settling deeper. There was no anger. No resentment. Only a hollow space where dreams used to be.
Maybe this was how it always ended.
Not with a fight. Not with a slammed door.
But with two people drifting so far apart that even remembering how to reach for each other felt impossible.
The glass finally touched his lips, but the water tasted stale.
When did everything start feeling like this?
When did I stop trying?
When did she?
The sound of the front door opening stirred him from his thoughts. Selene's voice, soft and distant, floated in.
"Cassian?"
He set the glass down carefully, as if afraid even the smallest sound would crack the fragile air between them.
"I'm here," he answered, voice steady, almost too steady.
Footsteps approached, measured and light.
She appeared in the kitchen doorway, a slight smile on her face— the kind people gave when they didn't know what else to say.
"Long day?" she asked.
He nodded.
"You?" he asked back, because it was expected.
"Same," she said simply, moving to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of wine. She didn't offer him any. He didn't ask.
They stood there, side by side, two figures in the same frame, worlds apart.
And as she sipped her wine, flipping through a magazine she wasn't really reading, Cassian wondered— not for the first time— if love died not from betrayal, but from the thousand small moments of forgetting how to be seen.
That night, the house settled into stillness.
Cassian sat at the edge of their bed, the room dim except for the soft glow of the lamp on Selene's side. She was already tucked beneath the sheets, her back turned to him, her breathing steady.
There was a time when he would have slipped in beside her without hesitation, wrapped an arm around her waist, pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder.
No thought. No space between them.
But now, he hesitated.
He watched the way her hand curled lightly against the pillow. The way her hair spilled across the fabric. She looked so close, and yet miles away.
Quietly, almost without meaning to, Cassian reached out a hand— not to touch her, but to close the gap between them in whatever small way he still could.
But halfway there, his fingers froze in the air.
He didn't know if the distance was hers or his anymore. He didn't know if reaching for her would be enough, or if it would only remind him of everything he could no longer hold.
Slowly, he let his hand fall back to his side.
He laid down, careful not to shift the mattress too much, careful not to break the delicate truce the silence offered.
Staring up at the ceiling, Cassian listened to the soft hum of the air conditioner, the occasional rustle of sheets as Selene shifted slightly in her sleep.
For a moment, he closed his eyes and tried to remember how it felt— to be sure. To be certain of her hand finding his in the dark, without hesitation, without fear.
But the memory was slippery, blurred around the edges, like something half-forgotten after a long dream.
He turned onto his side, facing her back.
And even though he was close enough to feel the faint warmth of her body, it wasn't enough to thaw the cold that had settled between them.
Maybe love doesn't shatter all at once, he thought, eyes tracing the familiar curve of her shoulder.
Maybe it unravels in the smallest, quietest ways. Until one day, you wake up and realize the thread is gone— and you're just two people, lying side by side, each holding an end of something that isn't there anymore.
Cassian didn't notice the way his throat tightened. Or the way a soft sigh escaped him, one he quickly swallowed back down.
He stayed like that for a long time, eyes open in the darkness, heart quietly breaking in a way no one would ever see.
And when he finally closed his eyes, it wasn't sleep that came.
It was the weight of all the words he didn't know how to say anymore.
Cassian lay awake long after the lights had been turned off, the quiet of the room pressing down on him like a second skin.
Selene slept beside him, her breathing soft and steady, a sound he had once found comfort in. Now, it only reminded him of the spaces he could no longer reach.
He turned his head slightly, studying the outline of her face in the dim light. She looked peaceful. Untouched by the thousand fractures he carried in silence. Or maybe she wasn't untouched— maybe she was simply better at hiding the weight.
Cassian closed his eyes, sinking deeper into the hollow ache spreading in his chest.
There were words he could have said. Bridges he could have built. But somehow, somewhere along the way, silence had become easier. Safer. Until it was all they had left.
"How do you break a silence you've long called home?"
His hand twitched against the sheets, an instinct to reach for her. To try.
But he didn't move.
Because loving someone in silence was easier than risking being met with more of it.
So he stayed still, staring into the darkness, swallowing every word he was too late to say.
And somewhere between the steady rhythm of her breathing and the soft hum of the night, Cassian realized—
Sometimes, you don't lose people all at once.
Sometimes, you lose them one unspoken moment at a time.