The silence between them wasn't cold.It wasn't bitter.It was just… there.
No new texts.No late-night memes.No idle car jokes or quiet check-ins.
Three days passed.
Then four.
And still—nothing.
At first, Elena told herself it was fine. They were just friends. He wasn't obligated to text her. They didn't owe each other daily updates. It wasn't weird. It was normal.
But by the fifth day, she couldn't stop checking her phone before bed.
Even if she didn't open their message thread, her thumb hovered near it. Like muscle memory. Like something unfinished she couldn't quite put down.
_________________________________________________________________________________________
She saw him once, from a distance.
He was walking near the engineering wing, hood up, headphones on. His usual rhythm—slow, steady, unbothered.
He didn't see her.
She didn't wave.
She told herself she didn't want him to.
But she still turned her head a little too late.
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By the sixth day, Elena found herself laying on her bed, hoodie wrapped around her like a shell, phone resting on her stomach, eyes staring up at the ceiling.
She was thinking about how she'd say something. If she ever did.
Not a confession. Not that dramatic.
Just honesty.
Honesty about how he made her feel safe. About how his quiet presence was louder than most people's constant chatter. About how she missed him—not because she was in love, not because she wanted anything specific, but because her life felt slightly off-balance without him there.
She'd start with something small. A question, maybe.
Like:
| "Do you miss talking to me?"| Or| "Did I do something wrong?"
Or maybe just:
| "I've been thinking about you."
But every time she played it out in her head, she imagined the ways it could go sideways.
Maybe he'd feel pressure. Maybe he'd pull away. Maybe he'd say he didn't feel the same.
Or worse—maybe he'd feel the same, and it would change things too soon.
Because the truth was:She didn't like him.Not like that.Not yet.
But she wanted to.
And that scared her more than she wanted to admit.
_________________________________________________________________________________________
She sat up and opened his name in her contacts.
Her fingers typed something.
Then erased it.
Typed again.
Paused.
Deleted.
In the end, she just locked her screen and set the phone down face-first on her desk.
Some silences didn't mean goodbye.
Some meant not yet.
And tonight, that was enough.