When the Quiet Hurts

"Healing doesn't always make noise. Sometimes it sounds like distance, silence, or needing space to breathe."

The shift didn't happen all at once.

It began subtly, like the soft fading of color from autumn leaves—slow and quiet. Yuna noticed it first when Eli didn't reply to her message that morning. Then again, when he didn't stop by the literature building like he usually did. No coffee waiting on the bench. No casual text asking if she was warm enough.

Just silence.

At first, she didn't think much of it. Maybe he was tired. Maybe work at Mocha Moon had picked up. But by the third day, something in her stomach began to twist.

She sat with Mina at the campus café, pushing around the last bits of her sandwich.

"You're quiet," Mina said.

Yuna looked up. "So is he."

"Eli?"

She nodded.

Mina hesitated. "Okay, but... did something happen?"

"No. That's the thing. Everything was fine. Then it just... shifted."

Mina leaned back in her chair. "Have you tried asking him?"

Yuna exhaled. "Not yet."

"Then don't spiral until you do. You two are like slow-cooked stew—takes time, but it's worth it."

Yuna laughed a little. "That's a weird metaphor."

Mina winked. "And yet, I'm not wrong."

By Thursday, Yuna couldn't take the wondering anymore. She left class early and walked to Mocha Moon.

Eli was there, behind the counter, refilling the pastry case. His eyes lit up when he saw her—but just slightly. Something was off. He didn't reach for her hand.

"Hey," she said softly.

"Hey."

"Can we talk?"

He nodded, wiping his hands. "Give me five minutes."

She waited at their usual table, the one in the back near the window.

When he finally sat across from her, he looked tired. Not physically—emotionally. Like he hadn't allowed himself to rest.

"I'm sorry I went quiet," he said, before she could ask.

"You don't owe me an apology," Yuna said. "But you do owe me honesty."

Eli looked down at his hands. "I got a call from my mom. She's moving."

Yuna tilted her head. "Moving?"

"Out of the house. Selling it."

The words dropped between them like pebbles in a pond.

"Noah's room," Yuna whispered.

Eli nodded slowly. "It's like losing him all over again."

She reached across the table, gently touching his fingers. He didn't pull away.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged. "I didn't want to bring it into us. I didn't want to weigh you down."

"You think I'm here for just the light parts?"

He met her eyes, pain visible. "Sometimes I don't know what I deserve."

Yuna swallowed hard. "You deserve someone who stays."

"I don't know how to let you."

They sat in silence.

Then she said, "Then let's not rush it. Let's just sit. Be here. Together. Even in the hard."

His eyes glistened. He gave a small nod.

"Okay," he whispered. "Stay."

She did.

Later that night, they sat in Eli's apartment. No music. No candles. Just the hum of the city and two people who were learning that love wasn't always loud.

Yuna read from her notebook.

*"This isn't about rescue. It's about remaining. In silence. In sorrow. In the spaces we fear. And still being found there."

Eli listened.

Then, quietly, he took her hand.

Not to pull her closer.

But to say: I'm still here.