There was a time when silence didn't scare her.
Back then, silence meant comfort—two bodies sharing space without needing proof of love. It meant safety.
Amara remembered the beginning vividly.
Daniel had been different then. Curious. Present. He used to look at her like she was something he was still learning, something he didn't want to miss.
She smiled to herself as she remembered their first real conversation—the night rain trapped them under a bus stop roof, their shoulders brushing accidentally, then deliberately.
"You talk like you're afraid of being misunderstood," he'd said.
She'd laughed. "And you talk like you're afraid of saying too much."
They'd talked for hours.
That was how love had sounded—questions, pauses, curiosity. Listening.
Now, when she looked at him, she wondered where that version of Daniel had gone. Or worse—whether she'd imagined him.
In the kitchen the next morning, Daniel rushed through breakfast, tying his shoes as he spoke. "I might be late tonight."
She stirred her tea slowly. "Okay."
"You're quiet."
She looked up. "I'm always quiet now."
He smiled, distracted. "You're just calm."
Amara watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him.
Calm, she thought.
If only he knew.