There was a time when loving Daniel felt like breathing.
Amara remembered it in fragments now—snapshots that came to her unexpectedly. The way he used to lean in when she spoke, as though every word mattered. The way he laughed with his whole body, head tilted back, eyes crinkling at the corners. The way silence between them once felt warm instead of hollow.
That version of their love had been effortless.
They used to talk about everything. Nothing was too small, nothing too strange. Daniel had once stayed up until dawn listening to her talk about her childhood fears, asking questions she hadn't realized she wanted someone to ask.
"You think too deeply," he'd said fondly.
"And you don't think enough," she'd replied, smiling.
They'd balanced each other then.
Now, standing alone in the kitchen days later, Amara traced her finger along the counter and wondered when effort had replaced ease. When conversations began to feel like negotiations. When laughter required timing instead of instinct.
She caught herself reaching for her phone to text him something mundane—Did you eat?—and stopped.
She didn't want to be the only one remembering.