Sofia didn't sleep much. But somewhere between midnight and sunrise, the ache in her chest began to settle—not because it hurt any less, but because she had finally stopped waiting for him to fix it.
Adam wasn't coming. Not with apologies. Not with explanations. And maybe—that was the clarity she needed.
Last night, he had finally given her the answer she never wanted but always feared: why she could never fall in love with him.
And now, she had no choice but to accept it. Respect it. Adam had never asked her to love him. He had never made promises. He had been honest—in his silence, in his distance, in every touch that felt careful instead of certain.
It wasn't his fault she fell. It was hers.
Hers for hoping. Hers for reading too much into his quiet kindness. Hers for mistaking his soft glances, his gentle hands, and even his cold withdrawal as something more than what it was.
