Trying Again

After we decided to try again, things weren’t perfect — but they were ours. Quiet and fragile, like a flower just beginning to bloom after a long winter.

She was tired. That was the first thing I noticed every time we talked. She worked long, exhausting shifts as a nurse, often coming home late, barely enough time to rest before the next day’s demands pulled her away again.

Because of that, we didn’t get the long hours together like before. She rarely stayed online for long, usually just enough time to say a quick hello, check in, then sign off so she could get some rest. But even in those short moments, the connection between us was strong.

When she logged in, her shy nature showed more than ever. She didn’t flood me with messages or try to keep conversations going endlessly. Instead, she sent small, thoughtful texts — gentle reminders to eat, quick questions about my day, or sometimes just a soft “I’m thinking about you.” It wasn’t much, but for someone so worn out from her daily grind, it was everything.

I could tell she was struggling, though. Her words came carefully, as if she was afraid to reveal too much of herself and risk getting hurt again. She didn’t speak openly about the weight she carried—the stress, the exhaustion, the nights she had to push through when all she wanted was to collapse.

But beneath her quiet exterior, I sensed the storm. The constant battle to keep going. The battle to hold onto us.

---

Even when she was tired, she still showed how much she cared. It was in the small things. She’d check on me, making sure I’d eaten, asking if I was managing school or work okay. Sometimes she sent me links to little things she thought I’d like — a song, a meme, something to make me smile. It was subtle, but those moments made me feel closer to her, despite the distance and the tiredness that often kept us apart.

In turn, I tried to be there for her as much as I could. I sent her little gifts in the game—virtual flowers, poems I’d written, silly jokes to brighten her day. I knew those gestures couldn’t fix the exhaustion, but I hoped they would remind her that someone cared, that she wasn’t alone.

---

We still played together, but differently than before. No late nights spent laughing in the plaza café or endless hours doing tasks. Instead, our time was brief and quiet. She would log in for a short while, and we’d play pillow fights or the guessing games she liked. Sometimes she’d ask for help with a task, and I’d gladly jump in to support her.

Those moments were precious. Even though they were shorter and quieter, they reminded me of the joy we had shared and that we could still find lightness together.

She never pushed for more. When her energy ran low, she would apologize quietly and log off, leaving me with the lingering hope that we’d catch up again soon.

---

There were times when she struggled to explain what she felt. She was shy not just in words but in emotions too. When something was wrong, she didn’t say it outright. Instead, she’d grow quiet, hesitant, and sometimes I had to guess what was behind the silence.

I learned to be patient with her. I listened more than I talked. When she found it hard to express herself, I tried to give her space without pulling away. I told her it was okay to be scared or unsure, that I was there no matter what.

One evening, after a short chat, she sent me a message that caught me off guard:

> “Sometimes I worry I’m not enough.”

That simple sentence, so vulnerable and raw, hit me deep. I typed back slowly, careful with my words:

> “You are more than enough. You’re everything I want. Don’t ever doubt that.”

She didn’t reply immediately, but a little later, a shy heart emoji appeared in my inbox. It wasn’t much, but it said everything.

---

Even with the care we shared, the distance was heavy. Her shifts, my studies and work — they left little room for us to fully be together. There was an unspoken tension beneath the surface, a feeling that no matter how much we wanted it, time was working against us.

She got anxious when I couldn’t reply quickly, sometimes sending messages that piled up when I was busy. I never told her to stop, but the pressure showed. I knew she just wanted reassurance, but I also felt stretched thin.

Still, when I saw her name pop up, I felt warmth spread through me. Despite everything, she was there. She cared.

---

One afternoon, she shared a song with me — soft, slow, and filled with words about holding on and hoping. She told me it reminded her of how she felt lately: tired, but still trying to keep us alive.

I listened to the song again and again, feeling the same way. I told her that, and she thanked me quietly.

---

Sometimes we talked about the future, even if it felt far away and uncertain. She imagined a life where she wasn’t so exhausted, where she could wake up without alarms pulling her away. I imagined a time when distance wouldn’t matter, when we could be in the same room and not just on screens.

But mostly, we stayed in the present — the brief smiles, the small gestures, the quiet moments that still meant everything.

---

It wasn’t perfect. Far from it.

But it was real.

And for now, that was enough.

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