Daniel didn't think he was doing anything wrong.
That was the problem.
He believed love was proven through consistency—through staying, through not giving up. His father had been emotionally distant but present, and Daniel had grown up equating provision with devotion.
Talking about feelings felt unnecessary. Overanalyzing emotions felt exhausting.
When Amara grew quiet, Daniel interpreted it as peace. When she stopped questioning him, he assumed trust had deepened. He didn't consider that silence could be a warning.
One evening, as they sat together watching television, Daniel glanced sideways at her.
"You okay?" he asked casually.
"Yes," she said, eyes fixed on the screen.
He nodded, satisfied.
He didn't notice the way her hands clenched in her lap, or how her shoulders stayed tense long after the show ended. He didn't notice that her yes no longer invited conversation.
Daniel fell asleep that night thinking relationships matured into quiet.
He didn't know quiet could also mean retreat.