Quiet spaces, Heavy Thoughts

Saturday mornings used to be our time.

Me and Abby, tangled in blankets on the couch, flipping through rom-coms we'd already seen a hundred times, arguing over whose turn it was to make pancakes.

But not today.

Today she was still in bed at ten, phone in hand, scrolling endlessly. Her smile from earlier in the week had vanished. Her brows were furrowed, lips pressed tight.

"Everything okay?" I asked from the doorway.

She didn't look up. "Yeah. Just tired."

That was her new answer for everything.

I left her alone and headed to the kitchen. Made pancakes. Poured two mugs of coffee. Set her plate at the table like always, even though I wasn't sure she'd come.

Twenty minutes later, she walked in wearing her robe, sat across from me without a word, and slowly started eating.

We didn't talk.

The silence wasn't hostile—but it wasn't comfortable either.

It was the kind that made you feel every sound: the clink of the fork, the quiet hum of the fridge, the creak of a chair.

Finally, she spoke. "He hasn't texted all morning."

I didn't ask who. I didn't have to.

"He always texts me first," she added quietly. "Even when he's busy."

I tried to keep my tone even. "Maybe he's sleeping in."

She shook her head. "No. Something's off. I feel it."

I looked down at my plate. "Do you trust him?"

There was a long pause before she answered.

"I want to," she said. "But sometimes… I feel like he's not fully here. Like part of him is somewhere else."

The words sat heavily between us. I didn't touch them.

Instead, I changed the subject—asked about her hair appointment, her group project, anything to steer us back to safer ground.

Later that afternoon, she went out. Said she needed "air." Didn't say where she was going.

I cleaned the kitchen. Then the bathroom. Then reorganized my bookshelves.

I needed distractions, or else my thoughts would drift.

I kept remembering her voice:

"I feel like he's not fully here."

And the unspoken part:

Where is he, then?

Around sunset, I stepped out onto the balcony. The city felt softer in the orange glow. Less tense. Less watchful.

I closed my eyes and leaned on the railing, breathing in the evening breeze.

Then I heard the front door open.

Abby came out quietly and stood beside me. She didn't say anything at first. We just stood there, listening to the muffled sounds of life happening beyond us.

"I'm scared," she whispered.

I turned to her.

"Of what?"

"That I'm not enough for him."

I reached for her hand. "You are. If he can't see that, he's the one who's not enough."

She didn't respond, but she didn't let go.

We stood there like that for a while, watching the sky change colors. There were no solutions. No perfect words.

Just quiet understanding. And the weight of everything neither of us wanted to say out loud