They’d been together through a lot—midnight talks, weekend drives, lazy Sunday mornings. The kind of easy everyday moments that feel like they’ll stretch on forever. But tonight, walking side by side, the silence between them felt heavier than ever.
Dinner was fine, in a polite, distant sort of way. They talked about work, swapped stories, filled the air with small talk, but neither of them seemed to reach out, really. And with each pause, she felt the gap between them widening.
On their way back, she tried to lighten the mood. “Remember our first date? You laughed the whole time I tried to hide that coffee stain on my sweater.”
He chuckled, the kind of laugh that felt more like memory than joy. “You were so embarrassed.”
It was quiet again after that, and as they reached her street corner, he stopped, looking down as if he’d found something incredibly interesting on the sidewalk.
“Maybe…we’re clinging to something we shouldn’t be,” he murmured.
She nodded, both of them knowing it was true but not quite ready to say it out loud.
They exchanged a few quiet goodbyes, both weighed down by things they knew they couldn’t carry anymore.
As she walked home alone, she couldn’t shake the thought: sometimes love is like an umbrella—a shelter in the rain but a burden when the sun comes back out.
***
Writer's Note:
I've been keeping a lot of extremely short stories like this in my vault. I'll set them free and let them breath some fresh air (by publishing them here).
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