CHAPTER TWELVE — The Day They Pretended Not To Feel It
785 Words
Sometimes the hardest thing isn’t letting go…
it’s acting like you already have.
———
It happened without warning.
Keira wasn’t expecting to see him.
Not there.
Not like that.
She had gone to the café out of habit.
A mistake, she told herself.
Something she wouldn’t repeat.
But then—
he was there.
Sitting exactly where he always used to.
And for a moment—
everything she had been holding together quietly…
shifted.
Ziven looked up.
Their eyes met.
And just like that—
all the distance they had built
collapsed into one second of recognition.
But neither of them smiled.
That was new.
“Hi,” Keira said softly.
“Hi,” he replied.
And that was it.
No warmth.
No ease.
Just two people standing in front of something they both felt…
but no longer knew how to reach.
“Are you… okay?” he asked after a moment.
Keira nodded.
“I’m fine.”
They both knew she wasn’t.
“You?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Another lie.
Silence followed.
And this time—
it didn’t feel shared.
It felt like distance pretending to be calm.
“I didn’t think you’d come back here,” Ziven said quietly.
Keira gave a small shrug.
“I didn’t think you would either.”
A pause.
“I didn’t plan it,” he added.
“Me neither.”
And still—
they stayed.
Because leaving too quickly would feel like running.
And neither of them wanted to admit they still felt something strong enough to run from.
They sat down.
Across from each other.
Like before.
But not like before.
Every word felt measured now.
Every glance controlled.
Every silence… heavier.
“You’ve been busy,” Ziven said.
Keira nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Good busy?”
She hesitated.
“Just… busy.”
He understood what that meant.
“I heard you might be moving,” she said after a while.
Ziven looked at her.
Surprised.
“Yeah,” he replied quietly.
Another pause.
“When?” she asked.
“Soon.”
That word landed harder than anything else.
Because it meant this distance—
wasn’t temporary anymore.
Keira looked down.
Trying to steady something inside her.
“That’s good,” she said softly.
Ziven didn’t respond immediately.
“You don’t sound like you mean that,” he said.
She looked up at him.
“I do,” she replied.
Then added—
“You should go where your life is taking you.”
That sounded right.
Responsible.
Mature.
But it didn’t sound like her.
Ziven noticed.
“Is that really how you feel?” he asked quietly.
Keira held his gaze.
“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” she said.
That was the truth.
And also—
the thing that hurt the most.
Silence stretched again.
There were so many things they could have said.
So many moments they could have fixed.
But timing had already taken something from them.
And now—
pride, fear, and exhaustion were taking the rest.
“I thought about reaching out,” Ziven said suddenly.
Keira’s breath caught slightly.
“But you didn’t,” she replied.
He shook his head.
“You asked for space.”
She let out a quiet breath.
“And you didn’t think I might have needed you to ignore that?”
That question stayed in the air.
Ziven didn’t answer.
Because he hadn’t thought of it that way.
“I thought you were pulling away,” Keira added softly.
“I thought you were too,” he said.
A pause.
And there it was.
The misunderstanding.
Simple.
Painful.
Unnecessary.
And now—
too late to fix easily.
Keira smiled faintly.
Not because she was happy.
But because something inside her had accepted it.
“That’s unfortunate,” she said quietly.
Ziven looked at her.
“That’s all it is to you?” he asked.
She shook her head slightly.
“No,” she said.
Then softer—
“It’s just all it can be now.”
That was the breaking point.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just final in a way neither of them wanted.
They stood up almost at the same time.
No hesitation this time.
No lingering
Because staying longer would only make it harder to leave.
“Take care of yourself,” Ziven said quietly.
Keira nodded.
“You too.”
And that was it.
No promises.
No “we’ll talk.”
No “see you again.”
Just two people who once felt like something real…
choosing to walk away like it wasn’t.
Outside, the world looked the same.
But for both of them—
something had ended.
Not love.
But the chance to hold it.
- Writer
