I started noticing time differently around this point.
Not the big kind, like years or plans, but the small kind. Minutes. Glances. The space between one message and the next. Time stopped feeling endless and began to feel counted.
I did not know why at first. Nothing bad had happened yet. We were still together. We still spoke every day. He still held my hand when we crossed the street. From the outside, it looked the same.
But inside me, something had changed.
Moments began to feel borrowed.
When we sat together, I watched him more closely. The way he leaned back in his chair. The way his fingers tapped the table when he was thinking. I caught myself memorizing him, like someone afraid a picture might fade.
That scared me.
People don't memorize what they believe will stay.
I started writing more often then. Short entries at first. Just lines. Just feelings. I told myself it was nothing serious. That I was only trying to be more present.
The truth was, I was afraid to forget.
There were days when he looked at me with so much warmth that I felt foolish for doubting anything. On those days, I laughed easily. I touched his arm more. I told myself I was imagining the distance.
Then there were other days.
Days when he felt far, even while sitting beside me. Days when his smile came a second too late. Days when he looked tired in a way sleep could not fix.
I never asked what was wrong.
I told myself everyone carries things they cannot share.
Still, time felt thin on those days. Like glass. Clear, fragile, ready to break if I pressed too hard.
We began doing things more slowly. Longer walks. Longer meals. We stayed in more. It felt like we were stretching our hours, pulling them wider so they would last.
One night, we stayed awake until morning. We talked about nothing important. Music. Old memories. Strange thoughts that only come when the world is quiet. When the sun started to rise, I felt a tightness in my chest.
It felt like goodbye.
I didn't say that out loud.
Instead, I leaned my head on his shoulder and listened to his breathing. I counted each breath without knowing why. When he noticed, he smiled and asked what I was doing.
"Nothing," I said.
That word followed me a lot during this time.
Nothing was wrong.
Nothing was changing.
Nothing needed to be said.
Nothing is a useful word. It hides fear well.
My diary from this chapter is uneven. Some pages are full. Others have only a date and one sentence. I think that was because some days felt too heavy to touch, and others felt too precious to interrupt.
I remember writing this one night:
I feel like I am holding something fragile, and I don't know if I'm allowed to hold it.
I didn't know then that borrowed time does not belong to you. You can feel it, love it, live inside it, but you cannot keep it.
It will always be taken back.
Still, I stayed. I loved him fully, even with the fear sitting quietly beside me. If time were limited, I wanted it to be real. I wanted every second to matter.
If this were borrowed time,
I decided to spend it without regret.