Love doesn’t shatter all at once — it crumbles, piece by piece. I noticed the distance in your eyes before I felt it in your touch. Conversations grew shorter, silences heavier. I clung to every fleeting moment of tenderness, pretending we weren’t unraveling. I loved you harder, thinking my devotion could stitch the cracks before we broke completely. It didn’t happen all at once. Love slipped through the cracks slowly, like water wearing down stone. At first, I ignored the signs — the way your texts grew shorter, the nights you chose sleep over our late talks, the moments you seemed miles away even when you were right beside me.

I told myself it was just a rough patch. I made excuses for your distance, convincing myself that if I loved you harder, you’d come back to me. But love isn’t a cure for someone who’s already halfway out the door. And no matter how tightly I held on, I couldn’t stop you from slipping away. The shift was subtle at first. You started answering texts a little later, your kisses felt less urgent, and our conversations grew quieter. I told myself it was normal — that even the most intense love settles into something softer over time.

But then you stopped asking about my day. You started scrolling through your phone while I talked, nodding absently as if my words were background noise. The inside jokes faded, and our laughter became rare, as if joy itself had quietly slipped out the back door.

I began to ache for you in your presence. I longed for the version of you who used to look at me like I was a miracle. I stayed up late, replaying old memories like they were proof that we were still worth saving. I told myself that love, real love, meant weathering the storms.

So I stayed. Even as the sky darkened.