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flowstatefic · 11 days ago

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Hahaha!! No, I have a few more parts to finish and edit/format/post!!!! There is more I promise!!!

Before It's Over - Bob Floyd (Part 2)

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Floyd x reader

Word Count: 5.2k

Themes: emotional distance, fear of abandonment, emotional baggage, what ifs, emotional angst, insecurities, projected insecurities.

Warnings: Emotional angst, emotional compartmentalization, preparing for the end, self isolation, loneliness, subtle emotional trauma, fear of abandonment, presumed infidelity, lots of hurt feelings, miscommunication, literally so much miscommunication, failure to communicate at all in some places, both bob and reader are preparing for the worst, bob loves reader so much it literally makes my chest feel like its caving in, both of them are pretending everything is fine, neither of them are actually fine, so much emotional tension, both are wound so tight that they’re probably going to snap at any moment, I’m so sorry its so long, I can’t stop myself, I literally go into a fugue state when writing angst, I’m so sorry in advance

Summary: You used to look at Bob and feel like you were basking in the sun. He used to look at you and feel the whole world still around him. Neither of you knows when it happened, but at some point you both started to pull away. He grasps at straws, trying to keep you close. You try to give him something good to look back on when he leaves. Neither of you knows that the other is quietly falling apart when the other isn’t looking.

A/N: GUYS this part broke a piece of my heart. I was working on it last week with my sister - she's my beta reader, continuity checker, editor-in-chief. Everytime she would finish looking at something I'd finished (or thought I'd finished -- she always had edits for me lol), she would just look at me and say: "girl....pain..." followed by something like: "he's such an angel, why would you do this to him?? just twisting the knife." BASICALLY it gets worse before it gets better. We all know that Bob is a sweet-hearted lover-boy, so he would take this so hard.

Anyways, enjoy. Please reblog/like/comment your thoughts (: love you all.

You know the drill: more below the cut!

Two days later, you’re driving together to a small event on base. One of the guys is getting promoted. Bob had offered to drive, and you’d said yes. Now you regret it.

The car is silent. Not a word since you pulled out of the driveway. You watch the road. He watches the mirrors. Everything feels tight. Measured. You should say something. Make a joke. Put music on.

Instead, you stare out the window and wonder when you stopped knowing what to say to him. Beside you, Bob keeps adjusting the AC vent. Like it’s something he can control. Like it’ll fix the fact that neither of you is speaking.

People are laughing, clinking glasses. Someone plays guitar in the background. You and Bob stand side by side; close, but not touching. Phoenix greets you both, Hangman following close behind her. He gives Bob a once-over, like he’s trying to figure out why he looks so hollow around the edges.

“Did you two fight or something?” Jake murmurs when Bob steps away for a drink. You shake your head, too quickly for it to be genuine.

“No. We’re fine.” He raises a brow.

“You sure? Because you’re standing like you don’t know if he’s still yours.”

You open your mouth to answer—but you don’t. Because you don’t know the answer.

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You’re in the kitchen helping Penny sort through plates when you hear it. Marley’s name. Bob’s voice. You freeze behind the corner of the wall.

“—yeah, she messaged me again,” Bob says, hushed. “No, I didn’t reply. I shouldn’t have even opened it.”

Your stomach twists. Penny says something you don’t catch. Then Bob’s voice comes through again, louder than Penny, more clearly.

“I think she knows. I just don’t want to make things worse. Things are already fragile enough.”

You step away before you can hear the rest. Because the words rattle inside you like an echo chamber. I think she knows. I didn’t reply. I shouldn’t have opened it. It hits like confirmation. The first time you’d thought maybe. Now you’re sure. He did have something to hide.

You don’t wait until you’re home, you don’t even wait until you’re alone. You find him outside, near the back patio. Laughing with someone. A drink in his hand. You walk up and say, quietly, “She messaged you again?”

His whole face changes. “What—”

“Marley,” you snap, sharper now. “She messaged you again. And you didn’t tell me.”

He sets the drink down too fast. “Can we not do this here—”

“Why not?” you ask. “You already had the conversation with everyone but me.” People nearby start to glance over.

Bob lowers his voice. “I didn’t reply.”

Your heart races, face flushing as you ball your hands into fists. “That’s not the point.”

He sighs, eyes darting around, looking at all of the people that were now watching the spectacle of your argument unfold in front of them. “I was trying to protect you.”

“No,” you say, chest tight. “You were trying to keep me in the dark.”

The tension snaps.

“Do you think I’m cheating on you?” he asks, voice breaking. “Is that what you really think of me?”

“I don’t know what to think,” you fire back, “because you don’t tell me anything anymore.” Silence, people still watching, music playing somewhere inside. You let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, and walk away first.

Bob doesn’t follow this time.

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It happens three days after the fight. Bob’s in the hangar, head deep in a maintenance log, when he hears someone behind him clear their throat. He turns, expecting Phoenix to be pointing out something that he’d forgotten again, and freezes.

“Hi,” she says, like no time has passed. Like she didn’t rip the bottom out of his relationship just by existing.

“Marley,” he says flatly.

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up again.”

“I work here.” His voice is short, response clipped.

She glances around. “I know. Thought I’d stop by. We never finished our conversation.”

“There was no conversation.” He’s trying to shut it down before it goes any further. Phoenix rounds the corner, and frowns when she sees them. She gives Bob a sharp look. He doesn’t respond. Just says to Marley, “You need to leave.”

She tilts her head. “You really think she’s going to stick around? You looked miserable the last time I saw you.”

He steps back like she slapped him. “Don’t talk about her.”

“I’m just saying, maybe this,” she gestures around, “isn’t where you’re supposed to be.”

Phoenix steps between them before Bob even has the chance to say anything. “You heard him,” she says coldly. “Go.”

Marley leaves. Not fast. Not quiet. Phoenix turns to Bob.

“You okay?”

His shoulders drop. His head hangs low. His voice is little more than a whimper when he finally responds.

“No.”

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You sit on the floor of the shower with the water too hot and your knees pulled up to your chest. You’ve barely eaten all day. You didn’t answer Bob’s text. You couldn’t look at your phone without thinking about Marley. About the look on his face when you asked if he was cheating and he didn’t deny it right away.

You want to believe him. You do believe him. But belief doesn’t erase the hurt. It doesn’t fix the distance. He could’ve told you. He should’ve told you. Instead, he left you alone in your doubt, and now you’re not sure how to climb out of it.

You lie awake after the shower, staring at the ceiling, missing him so badly your chest aches.

You keep thinking of the way his voice cracked when he said, Do you think I’m cheating on you?

You keep thinking of the way he didn’t follow you home.

You want to text him. But you don’t.

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Bob sits in his truck in the dark. The engine’s off. The radio’s off. The only light is the blinking green of the dash clock, counting minutes he doesn’t know how to fill. He’s parked outside your place.

He’s been here for twenty minutes. He hasn’t gone to the door. He doesn’t know if he’s welcome. His fingers tap restlessly on the steering wheel.

He doesn’t know what hurts worse; being accused of something he didn’t do, or realizing that you didn’t trust him enough to ask first. He keeps replaying your voice, chest tightening with every instant-replay of your heart shattering on the concrete by his feet.

You don’t tell me anything anymore.

He wants to scream that it was because he was scared. That if he opened his mouth, everything would fall apart. He wants to go to the door.

But what if you don’t open it?

What if you don’t want him anymore?

What if this was the moment it all fell apart for good?

Finally, he drives away without knocking.

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The next day, you pick up your phone three separate times to text him.

I miss you.

I’m sorry.

Are we really doing this?

You type the words. Backspace them. Your fingers shake. You press the screen to your chest and lie on the couch with your eyes shut tight.

Bob, meanwhile, has had messages typed too.

I’m outside.

I didn’t know if I should knock.

I didn’t tell you about Marley because I was scared I’d lose you.

I think I lost you anyway.

He doesn’t send them. Neither of you do. You both carry your silence like a wound.

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It’s been five days. Not a week, not a lifetime; but somehow, it feels like both.

You haven’t spoken since the fight. No texts, no calls, no accidental run-ins. You still have his hoodie hanging on the chair. You still look at the space beside you in bed every night and wait for a door that never opens.

People are starting to notice. Phoenix didn’t ask questions the last time she saw you—just gave you a look that was soft and sad and understanding. You told Penny you were tired, but she didn’t believe you.

Bob, meanwhile, has been going through the motions like a ghost.

Eat.

Fly.

Clean.

Sleep.

Repeat.

Phoenix asked him yesterday, “How long are you going to pretend you’re not in love with someone you think you’ve lost?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

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The bar is quiet again—mid-afternoon, warm light drifting through the windows. Penny wipes a glass clean for the third time as Phoenix leans on the counter, nursing a club soda.

“Have you seen them lately?” Phoenix asks, not looking up. Penny nods, cocking her head as if she’s not sure what to say.

“She came in two nights ago. She wouldn’t drink, wouldn’t say anything real, just said that she didn’t feel like herself.”

Phoenix’s mouth tightens. “Bob looks like hell.”

“They both do.”

Silence stretches between them. Penny glances at the clock.

“They won’t talk to each other.”

“They’re both waiting for the other to move first,” Phoenix says, swirling the ice in her glass. “One of them’s going to break.”

Penny arches a brow. “You sure it won’t be both?”

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You brush your teeth in the mirror, foam in your mouth, sleep in your eyes, and suddenly, you burst into tears. Because his toothbrush is still in the cup next to yours. Blue handle. A little worn. You stare at it like it might disappear if you blink too hard.

You haven’t touched it. You haven’t dared. It’s been five days and somehow the stupid toothbrush is what makes it real. Not the cold bed. Not the aching silence. Not the absence of his hand on your back when you curl into yourself in the middle of the night.

Just this little plastic thing. Just this tiny, normal reminder of how close he used to be.

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Bob hasn’t been late for a flight since he was twenty-two. He’s five minutes late today. Not enough for anyone to say anything out loud. But enough that people notice. When he gets to the tarmac, his helmet’s not buckled right. His boots aren’t laced.

Reuben mutters to Hangman, “Something’s off.” Hangman nods once. “It’s her.” Bob hears them. Doesn’t respond. He doesn’t say anything anymore unless someone asks directly.

He just flies. And waits for a reason to land.

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You go grocery shopping, finally. You see a couple holding hands in the cereal aisle, laughing over a box of Lucky Charms. You look away fast. At checkout, the cashier recognizes you.

“Hey, where’s Bob?” she asks casually. “He always carries your bags.”

You smile like your face doesn’t want to bend that way.

“He’s busy.”

She nods, not unkindly. “Hope he’s okay. You guys are cute.”

You nod politely, pay quietly, and leave.

When you get to the car, you cry, holding your purse to your chest as if holding something close to you can ease the ache. It can’t.

You sit on your couch that night with your phone in your lap and tears in your eyes. Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

Can we talk? I miss you.

You stare at it for five full minutes, and then delete it. Not because you don’t mean it, but because you’re not sure it would make a difference.

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Bob sees Phoenix in the locker room the next morning. She stops him with a hand on his arm.

“She loves you, you know.”

He stiffens. “She doesn’t act like it.”

A beat, long enough that Bob turns to look at her.

“Neither do you.” He stares at the floor. Phoenix exhales, frustrated. “Do you even know what you’re waiting for?”

“Yes.” He looks up at her. Eyes red, voice steady. “I’m waiting for her to decide if I’m still something she wants.”

Phoenix lets her hand drop. “You’re going to lose her, Bob.”

He swallows hard. “I already did.”

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It’s a Wednesday afternoon. You only stopped in to pick up a book you ordered a month ago. It’s raining lightly outside. Soft patter on the windows, the kind of weather that makes everything feel like a memory. You’re scanning the shelves near the register when you hear it. That voice. Soft. Familiar. Belonging to someone that used to be yours.

You don’t even mean to look up, but you do. Bob’s standing across the store. He sees you. And for a moment, just a moment, his whole face softens, like the tension holding him together slips. But you don’t smile, and neither does he.

You both stand there, not moving, not blinking, like the rest of the store has gone silent. Then he starts walking toward you, slowly, carefully. You brace yourself.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey.”

His hands are in his pockets. His hair’s damp from the rain. He looks tired, older, as if the last few weeks had carved something out of him, behind his eyes. You hold your book tight to your chest, almost as if it was a shield.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you whisper.

He nods, glancing around the aisle. “I didn’t either. I just,” he trails off, trying to come up with something to say, “just needed some air.”

You glance outside, brows raised.

“The rain’s not really air.” He gives the faintest smile. It doesn’t last. The silence hangs heavy between you. You both look at each other like you want to say a thousand things and are terrified none of them will land the way they’re meant to.

Finally, he says, “You okay?” You nod. Lie.

“Yeah. You?” He hesitates.

“I miss you.” The words come out too raw. Too exposed. You swallow, hard.

“Don’t.”

“I mean it,” he says, voice low. “I don’t even know how not to.”

You blink fast. “You don’t get to say that like I walked away.”

“I didn’t walk either,” he says quietly. “I just froze. And I think we both did.” You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to fall into his arms and beg him to tell you he still loves you—but you don’t do any of those things.

Instead, you say, “I should go.”

Bob’s face shutters.

“Okay.”

You turn to leave. take three steps, then stop. You don’t look back when you say it, your voice soft, trembling at the edges.

“You didn’t fight for me.” Then you walk out, and Bob stands there, blinking fast, watching the door swing shut behind you like it’s the last time.

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It’s just after midnight. You’re in bed, but not sleeping; curled under a blanket that you’d once shared with him. The room is silent except for the low hum of your phone charging beside you. When it rings, it’s so unexpected you think for a moment it’s a mistake. But it’s not.

Bob.

You stare at the screen, your heart jumping, but then it sinks. You let it ring once. Twice. Three times. And then, because it’s him, you answer.

“Hey.” His voice is quiet. Rough. Like he hasn’t spoken all day.

“Hi.”

You wait. So does he. Finally, you say, “Is everything okay?”

“No.” The answer is immediate, honest, unfiltered. You swallow.

“What happened?”

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says. “This in-between. This silence.” Your eyes sting.

“I keep waiting for it to get easier,” he continues, “and it’s not. It’s worse. Every day I don’t see you, I think—this is it. She’s gone. I lost her. And I didn’t even fight hard enough to stop it.”

You sit up in bed, knees to your chest. “Bob…”

He exhales, like your name hurts. “I miss you.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

That makes your breath catch, but it also makes something inside you close up. Because loving someone doesn’t always fix the damage. And right now, you’re too tired to believe it could.

“You should’ve said that weeks ago,” you whisper.

“I was scared,” he admits, quietly. You scoff.

“So was I.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know,” you hum, picking at the lint on your blanket. His voice is weak, when he asks, “Can I see you?”

You hesitate. And it’s the hesitation that breaks something in him.

“…Right,” he murmurs. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Bob—”

“No, it’s okay. You don’t have to explain. I get it.”

You close your eyes, sighing. “I never wanted this.”

“I know.”

“I don’t even know when we stopped knowing how to love each other.”

He doesn’t answer. And for the first time in a long time, neither of you is holding back. But it’s still not enough. Because it’s too late. Or maybe just not the right moment.

“I should go,” he says quietly. You nod, even though he can’t see it.

“Okay.”

He hangs up first. And you cry harder than you have in days.

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You say yes to a drink the next night. Not because you want to. But because you need something to change.

You meet him at a bar. He’s kind. Normal. Smiles a lot. His name’s Evan. Or maybe Ethan. You’re not even sure anymore. He talks about his job. His dog. His love of road trips.

You nod. Smile. Stir your drink. When he asks about you, you lie. You pretend you’re fine. You pretend you’re available. You don’t tell him that your heart’s still parked in a truck outside your apartment. That it still sleeps in a cold bed with the ghost of a man who never really left.

He laughs at something you say. Reaches across the table. Touches your hand. You flinch. And then you recover. Smile again. Let him pay the bill. You hug him goodbye. Say, “This was nice.” You don’t say I’ll see you again.

Because you won’t.

Because no matter how far you walk into this new space, you keep looking back. And Bob is always there.

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It’s two days after the phone call. Bob’s been quiet at work; focused, efficient, but glassy around the edges. It’s Phoenix who breaks the news. She doesn’t mean to.

They’re in the hangar again, reviewing a checklist, when she says, offhandedly, “Saw her at The Wharf last night.”

Bob stiffens.

Phoenix doesn’t notice. “Didn’t realize she’d started going back out again. Seemed… calm, I guess.”

Bob glances up. “She was out?”

Phoenix looks at him. “You didn’t know?”

He shakes his head, slow.

“Oh,” she says. Then, softly, “She wasn’t alone.”

His mouth goes dry. “Who?”

“I didn’t recognize him,” she says gently. “It didn’t look serious. Just a drink. But she laughed. First time I’ve seen her do that in weeks.” Bob doesn’t reply. Phoenix leans in, voice lowered. “Are you okay?” He nods once. Too fast.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He walks away before she can say anything else.

His stomach churns. His head spins. He’d told himself he could handle this; if it was really over. If you were happy. But hearing it? Imagining it? It guts him.

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It’s late. You’re walking home from the grocery store, keys in one hand, bag slung over your shoulder. The street is dim. Quiet. You’re rounding the corner by your building when you see him.

Bob.

Leaning against his truck, as if he’s been there a while. Your heart lurches. He straightens when he sees you, eyes flicking to the grocery bag, then to your face.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft. You nod.

“Hey.”

You walk closer. Slowly. Carefully. The air between you is heavier now—sharper, charged with something that feels like resentment wearing love’s face.

“I heard you went out,” he says, not quite looking at you.

You pause. “Phoenix?”

“Yeah.”

You shift your weight.

“It was just a drink.” He nods. Silence. You grip the strap of your bag tighter. “It didn’t mean anything.” He nods again. But the damage is already done.

“You said you missed me,” he says quietly. “And then you went out with someone else.”

You swallow. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I didn’t know I had a deadline,” he whispers.

You wince. “That’s not fair.” He shakes his head, holding up both hands, as if to surrender.

“I’m not trying to be fair,” he says. “I’m trying to understand how we got here.”

“So am I,” you snap. He takes a breath.

“Did you kiss him?” You stare at him.

“No.”

He nods once.

“Okay.”

“Is that what matters now?” you ask, your voice almost shrill. He shrugs.

“I don’t know what matters anymore.”

You clench your jaw. “You waited until I walked away to say anything.” he looks up at you as if you've just slapped him.

“I didn’t think I could lose you.”

“Well,” you whisper, “you did.” You step past him.

And this time, he doesn’t follow.

You drop the grocery bag in the kitchen and crumble into the chair. Your hands are shaking. You didn’t plan to say that. You did. You don’t even know if it’s true. You don’t know if you meant it. But you saw his face. You saw the way he looked at you like you were a stranger in a memory he couldn’t quite hold onto.

And it shattered something in you.

You press your palms to your eyes. You want him to fight for you. But you’re also scared that if he does, you’ll realize you’re already too far gone. And if he doesn’t? Then he never really meant to stay.

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Bob sits in his truck long after you’re gone. His fists are clenched in his lap. His chest aches. He keeps hearing your voice on loop.

You did.

He wants to scream. Wants to get out and run down the block and yell after you that he didn’t mean to lose you. That he never stopped loving you, that he didn’t know how to stop the spiral. But he doesn’t move. He just stares through the windshield and thinks about how stupid it is that one person can become the center of your whole damn world. And how impossible it is to survive when that person isn’t standing next to you anymore.

He starts the truck. He doesn’t go home. He just drives, as though if he keeps moving, maybe the ache won’t catch up.

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Bob doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe it’s because he’s exhausted, maybe it’s because he saw your favorite mug still in the back of his cupboard and it gutted him, or maybe it’s because he knows if he doesn’t say it now, he never will.

He sits on the edge of his bed, phone in hand. It’s late. The kind of late where the world is too quiet and everything echoes. Your name lights up on his phone screen, but he doesn’t hit call. He hits record on a voice note.

And when the beep comes, he speaks.

“I know I said I wouldn’t bother you again. And I meant it—I didn’t want to make it worse. But I think maybe I made everything worse by not saying this sooner.”

“I didn’t cheat on you. I never even thought about it. Marley showing up was a mistake I didn’t ask for, and I handled it badly. But I never wanted anyone but you.”

“I thought you were pulling away. I thought I was losing you. So I got quiet. I thought if I just… loved you softer, maybe you’d stay.”

“I didn’t realize you thought I was going to leave you. That all this time, you were scared too.”

“I love you. I don’t even know if that still means anything to you, but it’s the only thing I’m sure of anymore.”

“I miss you. I miss us. But mostly, I miss the way we used to look at each other like we were on the same side of the world.”

”…I don’t know what you need from me now. But I’ll give it to you. Even if it’s space. Even if it’s goodbye.”

“Just… take care of yourself. Please.”

He ends the message. He hesitates, almost deciding not to send it; then sends it.

And drops the phone like it burns.

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You hear the message three hours later. You’re sitting on the bathroom floor, knees drawn up, an untouched cup of tea going cold beside you. Your phone buzzes. The voice message sits there, quiet and glowing, like a heartbeat in your palm.

You press play, and Bob’s voice fills the room. At first, you don’t react. You just listen. Your throat tightens. Your eyes burn. But then—

“I thought if I just loved you softer, maybe you’d stay.”

That’s the one that breaks you. You start to cry. Not the sharp, angry kind, but the soft, quiet kind. The kind that feels like a wound that never closed. You curl into yourself on the tile floor, pressing your face into your knees, and you sob. Because you didn’t want soft love. You didn’t want him to whisper goodbye through kindness. You wanted him to fight. And now you’re not even sure if you have anything left to give.

Across town, Bob sits in his truck again. Not driving, just parked. Your name is still lit up in his message thread. He keeps checking it. Hoping it’ll say “Typing…” or “Read.”

It never does. So he breaks down. For the first time since the fight, he lets it all out. The fear. The grief. The guilt. He cries behind the wheel with his hands over his face and your voice during your last fight still echoing in his mind, burning in his ear.

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Phoenix is the one who cracks first. She shows up at your door that evening, no warning, no preamble, no text that says I’m coming over. You open the door with puffy eyes and a tired voice, barely above a whisper when you nod a greeting to her, forcing out a single, “Hey.” She walks in without a word and closes the door behind her. Then she hugs you, tight. You freeze for a second before crumbling into her arms.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. That’s enough of this.” You hiccup. “I can’t fix it.” She shakes her head, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Then let someone help. Let him help.” You shake your head. “It’s too late,” you whisper, lip trembling. “It’s not,” she says. “You think he’d be this wrecked if it was?” You stare at the floor.

Phoenix crouches in front of you, hands on your shoulders. “You both thought you were losing each other. And instead of turning toward each other, you turned away.” Your breath is quick, your heartrate stuttering. “I didn’t know how,” you whisper. “I know,” she says. “Neither did he.”

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Across town, Penny is at Bob’s apartment. She knocks once. He answers like a ghost. She doesn’t ask. She just steps in, pulls him into a gentle hug, and says softly, “She still loves you.” He closes his eyes. “Then why does it feel like I already lost her?” His fingers are trembling at his sides. She sighs, watching him hold himself together. “Because you’re grieving a version of her that never stopped loving you—but didn’t know how to say it.”

He sinks into the couch. Penny sits beside him. They don’t speak again for a long time.

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The voice message plays again in your head the next morning as you lay in bed, curtains still drawn, ignoring the mound of laundry that you’d washed and dried and thrown on the bed; avoiding touching it for days.

“I thought if I just loved you softer, maybe you’d stay.”

You’re not crying anymore, and you’re starting to think that you’ve run out of tears to cry. Because now, it’s not a sharp enough pain for it to produce tears; now it just hurts in that low, dull way that the ache of something broken hurts when it’s been broken for so long that it almost feels normal. You haven’t bothered replying to him, because you don’t know what to say. You keep holding your phone, staring at the screen as if it might tell you what the right thing to say is. Like it might write the words out into a message for you.

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Across town, Bob goes on his morning run and doesn’t remember a single step of it.

He barely sees the street, with the asphalt filled with potholes that he curses at everyday on his way to work. The cars, filled with people in a hurry to get wherever they’re going. The sky, pale blue with cotton candy clouds, pinks and purples streaking above him. You would have pointed them out, so he ignores the sky. He ignores the clouds, the smell of exhaust as he runs behind a car that’s past due for a service, the pothole that he nearly rolls his ankle into.

Despite his best efforts, he sees your face every time he closes his eyes, your face when you slept next to him, peaceful and soft, your face when you turned away from him. Your face before you turned away, your voice saying, You didn’t fight for me.

He did fight, in the only way that he knew how. He fought as hard as he could, he just didn’t fight it correctly. He didn’t fight it loudly, there was no yelling, no balled up fists, no explosive fights. There were no tears falling from the heartbreak that was laid out before him.

Instead, he’d fought quietly. Doing all of the little things that he thought made you fall in love with him in the first place. He did the things that he knew made you feel seen. The things that he was always proud of himself for remembering, even when everything else was pushing down on him.

The way you took your tea. The meal that made you happiest. The flowers that were your favorite. The snacks that you’d say you didn’t need, but you’d eat them anyway, making comments about how they were your favorite.

So, no. He didn’t fight you on it. Not loudly. He fought to remind you that you loved him. Even though it seemed like it hadn’t worked.

When he gets home, he checks his phone before he even closes the door. He checks it again before he gets into the shower. Again when he gets out. He checks it while he’s making dinner - three times. He checks it while he scrolls through a streaming service, trying to find something to put on to drown out the silence. He checks it when he brushes his teeth. He checks it as he lies down to go to bed.

Anytime you cross his mind, he checks it. Even when he tells himself not to. Even when it’s hurting more than helping.

He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, and thinks; maybe this is it. This is the final silence. The last time you both refuse to be the first one to say anything. The last time you both walk away.

In your own apartment, you lie in bed, wondering if his bed feels as cold and empty as yours does. You wonder if he’s using the weighted blanket that you’d gotten him for Christmas, or if he was sleeping in a sweater to make up for the loss of your body heat against him.

And despite the distance between you, both of you feel it; the sense that something in the air has shifted. It’s not quite a resolution, but it’s also not a surrender. It’s just the quiet. The last calm before the storm.

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