Change

The nights felt colder lately, but it wasn’t the air that chilled me — it was the silence that grew between us. The kind of silence that stretched far beyond missing words, heavy and suffocating like a fog that slowly creeps in and blurs everything once clear.

It was subtle at first.

A late reply here, a shorter message there.

I told myself it was nothing. Just stress, busy days, the usual.

But deep down, I knew better.

---

That night, I logged in exhausted. My eyes were heavy from studying, my fingers cramped from endless typing, my mind scattered between deadlines and presentations. But she was there, waiting.

Her avatar sat alone in the plaza café, the soft glow of the streetlights casting shadows across the pixelated walls. I sent a quick “Hey.” No reply. I waited. Then I sent “You okay?”

Still nothing.

---

Finally, she messaged me.

> “Are you talking to other girls?”

I blinked.

Stared at the words like they were some cruel joke.

Why would she think that?

I opened my mouth to type, but the screen blinked out before I could reply.

---

I wanted to scream at the screen,

> “No! You’re the only one.”

But instead, I typed slowly:

> “I’m not. Why would you think that?”

Her reply was almost immediate.

> “Because you don’t talk to me anymore. You barely reply. You’re distant. I see your messages to others, but you ignore me.”

The accusation stung, sharper than I expected.

I remembered the times I stayed up late, writing her poems, sending little gifts.

Remembered the mornings I messaged her first thing, the nights I said “good night.”

But it never felt like enough.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care.

I cared too much, maybe.

But I was buried under responsibilities — the kind that don’t stop, don’t wait for feelings or moments.

And she was scared.

Scared of being forgotten.

Scared of being replaced.

I tried to explain, but words felt brittle, fragile.

“I’m just… tired.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re the only one.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, the silence grew louder.

Over the next few days, things spiraled.

She stopped logging in as much.

When she did, she was cold.

Her messages were short, distant.

One night, I found her online, but she ignored my messages.

I sent flowers, poems, letters — all went unanswered.

The weight of it crushed me.

I knew trust was fragile with her, but I thought love would be stronger.

I thought she’d understand.

But maybe love isn’t enough when fear takes over.

Then came the night we broke up.

It wasn’t dramatic. No yelling, no accusations.

Just the quiet end of something we both wanted to keep alive.

She sent me a message that said:

“Maybe this distance is too much. Maybe we’re too different.”

I wanted to argue. To beg. To promise things would be better.

But my heart was tired.

My mind was exhausted.

So I replied simply:

“Maybe you’re right.”

The hours after felt like walking through a dream.

I logged back into the plaza — the place where everything started — and sat alone, my avatar still surrounded by soft glowing lights, now feeling cold and empty.

I kept staring at the screen, hoping she’d log back on, hoping she’d message me.

But the quiet stayed.

I thought about all the good times.

The pillow fights and guessing games.

The silly jokes and late-night talks.

Her laugh, bright even through the pixelated voices.

I thought about the poems I wrote, the flowers I sent, the promises I made.

And I wondered if it was all just a story I told myself to keep the pain away.

That night, I wrote her one last message.

“I love you. I always will. Even if we’re apart.”

I sent it without expectation.

Maybe it was foolish.