The breakup did not announce itself.
It arrived disguised as a reasonable conversation.
They met in the late afternoon, when the sun was undecided and the air felt tired. It was Arman who suggested they talk. Liyana agreed too quickly, which should have worried him. People who agree too quickly are usually already gone.
They sat on a bench near the river, leaving a polite distance between them, as if physical space could prevent emotional damage.
"So," Arman began, forcing a casual tone that fooled no one, "I think we should clarify things."
Liyana nodded. "I was thinking the same."
That symmetry hurt more than disagreement.
"We've been… whatever this is," he continued, gesturing vaguely between them, "for a while. And I don't think it's fair to either of us."
"Fair," she repeated. "You're right. It isn't."
He waited. She didn't elaborate.
Arman swallowed. "You're leaving."
It wasn't a question.
Liyana looked at the river. "Eventually."
There it was. Confirmation, as far as he was concerned.
"And I'm not someone you take with you," he said, half bitter, half resigned.
She turned sharply. "Is that what you think?"
He shrugged. "It's what your silence suggests."
Silence. The word tasted metallic.
"And what about you?" she asked quietly. "Is this how you explain things now? By suggesting instead of saying?"
He frowned. "Explain what?"
She almost laughed. Almost cried.
"The engagement," she said, finally.
The word hung between them.
"What engagement?" Arman asked.
She stared at him. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Pretend," she said. "I know."
His confusion looked genuine. That made it worse.
"I'm not engaged," he said slowly. "I don't even know who you're talking about."
Her heart stumbled.
Then pride recovered first.
"Oh," she said, too lightly. "Right."
Arman's patience snapped. "If you're accusing me of something, at least be honest about it."
"Honest?" she shot back. "You don't get to ask for honesty now."
"Why not?"
"Because you never offered it first."
There it was. The real wound.
Arman stood abruptly. "I don't do emotional interrogations."
"And I don't do emotional avoidance," she said, rising to face him. "So maybe this is the problem."
They stared at each other, breathing hard.
"So this is it?" Arman asked. "We end things over rumors and assumptions?"
Liyana's voice broke, just slightly. "No. We end things because we're both tired of guessing."
He nodded slowly, like someone accepting a verdict he had secretly expected.
"Then fine," he said. "Let's stop."
The word landed heavier than either of them anticipated.
Stop what?
The laughter?
The nights by the river?
The almosts?
"Yes," Liyana said. "Let's stop."
They stood there awkwardly, waiting for something—an apology, a confession, a miracle.
Nothing came.
"So," Arman said, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "friends?"
Liyana laughed. A sharp, humorless sound. "That would be dishonest."
"Then nothing?" he asked.
She hesitated. That hesitation had once been hope.
"Nothing," she said.
He nodded, as if relieved.
That night, Arman deleted her number. He told himself it was an act of self-respect, not fear. He threw himself into work, into writing, into productivity that numbed rather than healed.
Liyana went home and cried until morning. She hated herself for it. She hated him for not stopping her. She hated love for requiring courage at the exact moment it was hardest to find.
In the weeks that followed, something strange happened.
They both felt lighter.
The tension was gone. The confusion ended. The constant second-guessing stopped.
This must be freedom, Arman thought.
This must be peace, Liyana told herself.
They were wrong.
Freedom without honesty is just loneliness with better lighting.
And peace that costs love is only temporary.
Neither of them knew yet that this was not an ending—only the pause before tragedy decided to enter without permission.