The silence in Amara's apartment was loud. It had been three days since she walked out of Lucien's place, three days since she looked into his eyes and felt something in her shatter. She told herself she needed space, time to breathe, to think, to remember who she was before him. But the truth? She didn't know who she was anymore. She sat on her neatly made bed, staring at the glass of wine on her nightstand. It hadn't been touched. She'd poured it hours ago, hoping it would help her unwind, numb the ache in her chest, maybe even silence the voice in her head that kept repeating his name. Lucien. Even the memory of his voice stirred something inside her. Not desire. Not lust. Something deeper. Something messier. Longing. She turned on her side, clutching a pillow as if it could hold her together. The apartment felt colder, empty in months. Before Lucien, this place had been her fortress—clean lines, minimal decor, everything in order. Now it just felt sterile. Lifeless. Like her. She'd gone back to work, kept up appearances. Her co-workers had no idea anything was wrong. She smiled when expected, contributed in meetings, wore red lipstick like a shield. But inside, she was unraveling.
At night, her body remembered him. The way he touched her like she was sacred. The way he listened—even in silence. The way he saw through her walls without ever demanding she tear them down. But something had broken that night. And she didn't know if it could be repaired. Lucien had vanished. No messages. No calls. No flowers. No cryptic notes slipped under her door like before. Nothing. It was what she'd asked for—space. But now that she had it, she hated every second of it. She stared at her phone again, thumb hovering over his name in her contacts. He probably hated her. Or worse, he was waiting, respecting her silence. And it killed her that she didn't know which was worse. Lucien hadn't slept in two nights. He'd sat in the dark for hours after sheleft, trying to understand where he went wrong. He kept replaying every moment of their last session, every word, every pause, every breath. He hadn't pushed her physically. But emotionally? He'd touched a part of her soul that wasn't ready. And now she was gone. The dominant in him—the one who commanded control, who thrived in structure—was gone too. What remained was a man sitting on the edge of his bed, staring out a window he used to admire for its view of the city and now despised for reminding him how small he was without her. He didn't chase her. Not because he didn't want to, but because he didn't know how.
Lucien had always been the one in control. But Amara… she unraveled him. And he didn't know if she wanted him to put her back together—or if she needed to do it on her own. Days passed. Then a week. They went about their lives like strangers. Separate routines, separate worlds, and yet everything still smelled like memory. The ache of her absence grew heavier with every passing day. And yet, Amara couldn't bring herself to call. Lucien couldn't bring himself to reach out. Pride? Fear? Self-protection? Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. All they knew was that they had touched something real—and now they were pretending it never existed. One night, Amara sat by her window, staring at the city lights with a journal open on her lap. She hadn't written in weeks, but tonight, the words poured out. I didn't walk away because I didn't care. I walked away because I cared too much. Because for the first time, I wasn't pretending. And it scared me. She paused. Then added"But silence doesn't mean peace. silence doesn't mean peace. And missing someone doesn't mean weakness. Maybe pain isn't what broke me. Maybe running from it did.
She closed the journal, tears slipping down her cheeks. Her chest ached with the weight of everything unspoken. Lucien stood in front of her apartment building later that same night. He didn't go inside. He didn't press the buzzer. He just stood there, looking up at her floor like a man on the edge of something he couldn't name. He still didn't know ifhe was what she needed.But he knew she was what he wanted. For the first time in his life, he wasn't afraid to admit that love—real, raw, imperfect love—was more terrifying than control ever could be. They were apart. But neither of them was whole. somewhere in the space between pain and pleasure, silence and truth, they were both asking the same question: Did I just walk away from the only thing that ever felt real?