The Path to the Last Horizon

When Nothing Breaks

PART-9

At least, that’s what Rahul told himself as he sat there in the quiet of his room, phone resting loosely in his hand, screen now dark.

But “enough” was a strange word.

It didn’t mean satisfaction.

It didn’t mean perfection.

It just meant… he wasn’t chasing something anymore.

And for someone like Rahul, who had spent too long chasing emotional certainty, that alone felt like a shift he didn’t fully know how to name yet.

He stood up after a while, walking to the small window beside his desk.

Outside, Bangalore was alive in its usual scattered rhythm—lights blinking from apartments, distant traffic stretching into thin noise, a city that never fully paused even when it slowed down.

Rahul leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

He wasn’t thinking about anything specific.

That was new too.

Earlier, his mind always had an anchor thought—something unresolved, something waiting, something unfinished.

Now, there were gaps.

Spaces where thoughts used to rush in.

His phone buzzed again.

He looked at it.

A message.

“You went quiet.”

It was her.

He exhaled slightly, almost smiling.

Not because he was avoiding her.

But because she had noticed the same silence he used to fear.

And now, she wasn’t fearing it either.

He replied:

“Just thinking.”

A second later:

“Not overthinking?”

He paused before replying.

That question would’ve triggered something old in him months ago.

A defensive explanation.

A reassurance loop.

A need to prove he was fine.

But now…

He just typed:

“No. Just here.”

The reply took longer this time.

Not uncertainty.

But attention.

Then:

“Okay.”

Just that.

No probing.

No filling the silence unnecessarily.

Just acceptance.

Rahul sat back on his bed again.

And it struck him again—how much had changed without anything dramatic happening.

There were no grand conversations defining this transformation.

No single moment where everything “clicked.”

Just repetition.

Awareness.

Correction.

And continuation.

The next few days followed a similar rhythm.

Work.

Calls.

Silence.

Presence.

It wasn’t exciting in the way Rahul’s earlier emotional life had been—no spikes of anxiety, no emotional chaos that made everything feel urgent.

But it was stable.

And stability, he was slowly realizing, had its own kind of intensity.

Just quieter.

More grounded.

One evening, Rahul received a message while reviewing code at his desk.

“Can we talk properly tonight?”

He looked at it for a moment longer than usual.

Not because it felt alarming.

But because “properly” now had a different meaning between them.

It no longer meant seriousness or tension.

It meant intention.

He replied:

“Yeah. Same time?”

“Okay.”

At 9:30 PM, he called her.

She picked up after a few rings.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” Rahul replied.

There was a pause—but not an uncomfortable one.

A familiar one.

“You’re tired,” she said.

Rahul leaned back.

“Yeah. But not drained.”

“What’s the difference?” she asked.

He thought for a moment.

“Drained feels like you’re empty. Tired feels like you’ve used yourself.”

She was quiet for a second.

Then softly:

“That makes sense.”

They talked a little about work first.

Her day.

His day.

Normal things.

But Rahul noticed something subtle again—he wasn’t performing calm anymore.

He actually was calm.

That difference mattered more than it should have.

After a while, she said:

“I noticed something.”

Rahul hummed.

“What?”

“You don’t explain yourself as much anymore.”

He frowned slightly.

“Is that bad?”

“No,” she said quickly. “It’s… different.”

A pause.

Then she added:

“Earlier you used to fill every silence with explanation. Now you just let things exist.”

Rahul thought about that.

She was right.

He wasn’t trying to be understood all the time anymore.

Because he no longer assumed misunderstanding by default.

“I think I trust pauses more now,” he said.

She responded immediately:

“I noticed that too.”

That line stayed between them for a moment.

“I noticed that too.”

Not accusation.

Not observation of failure.

Just shared recognition of change.

Rahul looked out the window while still on the call.

The city lights seemed less chaotic than before.

Or maybe he was just seeing them differently.

“Do you ever feel like we’re different people now?” she asked suddenly.

Rahul didn’t rush to answer.

Because the honest answer wasn’t simple.

“Yes,” he said finally. “But not unfamiliar ones.”

A soft breath on the other end.

“I was afraid of that,” she admitted.

“Of what?” he asked.

“That we’d grow into versions of ourselves that didn’t fit anymore.”

Rahul shook his head slightly.

“I don’t think we stopped fitting,” he said. “I think we stopped forcing shape.”

That line came out naturally.

Even he noticed that.

There was a pause.

Then she said quietly:

“That sounds like you’ve stopped trying to control everything.”

Rahul smiled faintly.

“I think I stopped trying to control what I can’t predict.”

“And what can’t you predict?” she asked.

“Pretty much everything that matters,” he said honestly.

That made her laugh softly.

The conversation continued like that for a while.

Not intense.

Not emotional overload.

Just two people adjusting to a version of connection that didn’t require constant repair.

After some time, she said something quieter:

“I think I feel safer now.”

Rahul’s expression softened.

“Safer than before?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Not because nothing can go wrong. But because I know we won’t ignore it if it does.”

That sentence landed deeply.

Because that was exactly the shift.

Not prevention of problems.

But response to them.

Rahul nodded slowly, even though she couldn’t see it.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think that’s what changed most.”

A silence followed again.

But this one wasn’t empty.

It was shared understanding.

Then she said:

“I don’t feel like I need to fill silence anymore when I’m with you.”

Rahul smiled slightly.

“Same.”

That word again.

Same.

Not identical experiences.

But aligned understanding.

After the call ended, Rahul didn’t immediately move.

He stayed seated for a while.

Thinking—but not intensely.

Just observing.

Something had shifted again.

Not externally.

Internally.

Subtly.

Earlier, continuity had felt like stability.

Now, it felt like trust with breathing space.

He realized something important:

They were no longer managing a relationship.

They were participating in one.

And that difference mattered more than he could explain.

He finally closed his laptop.

Not because he was avoiding work.

But because he didn’t feel the need to escape into it.

He lay down on his bed.

Lights off.

City still moving outside.

But inside him—

quiet.

Not silence that needed fixing.

Just silence that existed.

And for the first time, Rahul didn’t interpret quiet as absence of something.

He interpreted it as presence of everything that no longer needed noise to survive.

That thought lingered in Rahul’s mind longer than he expected.

Because for most of his life, he had believed the opposite.

He had believed that if something was real, it had to be felt loudly.

If it was important, it had to demand attention.

If it mattered, it had to hurt a little to prove its existence.

But now… nothing around him was loud.

And yet, nothing felt absent either.

The next morning arrived without urgency.

Rahul woke up a few minutes before his alarm again.

But this time, he didn’t just lie there observing the silence.

He noticed something else underneath it.

Ease.

Not happiness.

Not excitement.

Just ease.

A kind of emotional neutrality that didn’t feel empty anymore.

He got ready slowly.

No rush.

No internal checklist screaming at him.

Even small things felt different now—like brushing his teeth, tying his shoes, locking his room door.

They were no longer interruptions between thoughts.

They were part of the flow.

At work, the change became more visible.

His manager called him over mid-morning.

“We might need you to lead a small sub-module next sprint,” he said.

Rahul blinked.

“Me?”

The manager nodded.

“You’ve been handling things steadily. No panic responses. No overengineering. That’s rare.”

Rahul didn’t know how to respond immediately.

Because praise used to make him anxious.

It used to feel like pressure disguised as approval.

But now… it just felt like information.

“I’ll do it,” Rahul said simply.

No overthinking.

No hesitation.

Just acceptance.

And even he noticed how strange that felt compared to the version of him from months ago.

Later that day, during a short break, his colleague sat beside him.

“You’re different,” she said again.

Rahul smiled faintly.

“You said that before.”

“I know,” she replied. “But it’s more obvious now.”

“How?”

“You don’t look like you’re waiting for something to go wrong anymore.”

That sentence stayed with him.

Because she was right.

Rahul leaned back slightly.

“I think I stopped treating stability like it’s temporary,” he said.

His colleague tilted her head.

“Isn’t everything temporary?”

Rahul thought about that.

“Yes,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s fragile.”

That distinction felt important.

Even if he couldn’t fully explain why yet.

That evening, Rahul stepped out earlier again.

Not because he was avoiding work.

But because he wanted to walk.

Just walk.

No destination.

No urgency.

The streets felt familiar now.

Not in a comforting way exactly.

But in a recognizable way.

Like a place that had stopped resisting his presence.

His phone buzzed.

Her name.

He answered.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” Rahul replied.

“You sound outside again,” she noticed immediately.

“Yeah,” he said. “Walking.”

“Same place?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Different route.”

A small pause.

Then she said softly:

“That sounds like you.”

Rahul smiled.

“How?”

“You used to repeat safe patterns,” she said. “Now you explore them.”

He nodded even though she couldn’t see it.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I think I do.”

They walked through conversation naturally.

Not forced updates.

Not structured check-ins.

Just flow.

But something deeper was happening underneath it.

Not in what they were saying.

But in how they were saying it.

Less urgency.

More space.

At one point, she said:

“I had a strange moment today.”

Rahul slowed slightly.

“What happened?”

“I didn’t feel like checking my phone constantly,” she said. “And then I realized I wasn’t waiting for anything urgent.”

Rahul stayed quiet for a moment.

Then said:

“That’s a good sign.”

“Is it?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “It means the space between messages isn’t anxiety anymore.”

She hummed softly.

“I didn’t think I’d reach that point.”

“Neither did I,” Rahul admitted.

They stopped at different ends of silence for a moment.

But this time, silence didn’t pull them apart.

It just existed between them.

Then she said something quieter:

“I think I trust us more when we’re not talking.”

Rahul raised an eyebrow slightly.

“That’s new.”

“I know,” she said. “But it doesn’t feel like absence anymore. It feels like stability.”

Rahul processed that slowly.

Because that was exactly what he had been feeling too.

“I think we stopped fearing distance,” he said.

“And started understanding it,” she added.

Rahul smiled.

“Yeah.”

The call ended after a while.

No dramatic goodbye.

No emotional weight.

Just natural closure again.

Rahul continued walking for a while after that.

The city around him was shifting into evening again.

Lights turning on.

Shadows stretching.

Life continuing.

But inside him, something else was settling.

A realization forming slowly.

Not sharp.

Not sudden.

Just steady.

He realized he no longer measured the relationship in emotional peaks.

No longer waited for reassurance moments.

No longer treated silence as something to decode.

Instead, he measured it in consistency.

In absence of fear.

In ease of return.

And that changed everything.

Back in his room later that night, Rahul sat on the bed instead of the chair.

Phone in hand.

But not immediately checking anything.

He just sat there.

Present.

A message came.

“Reached?”

He smiled.

“Yeah.”

Then added:

“Just sitting.”

She replied:

“Thinking again?”

Rahul paused.

Then typed:

“Not thinking in circles.”

A second later:

“Just noticing.”

Her reply came after a moment.

“Noticing what?”

Rahul looked at the screen.

Then glanced around his room.

The quiet.

The light.

The absence of urgency.

He typed:

“That things don’t feel like they’re falling apart anymore.”

There was a pause.

A longer one this time.

Then:

“Me too.”

Rahul put the phone down.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the need to continue the conversation to make sure it stayed okay.

Because it already was.

He lay back on the bed.

Hands behind his head.

Eyes open.

Not restless.

Just aware.

And slowly, another realization formed.

He wasn’t in a relationship that survived chaos anymore.

He was in one that functioned without needing it.

That thought didn’t feel dramatic.

It felt grounding.

Because chaos had once been proof of feeling.

Now, calm was proof of understanding.

And understanding, Rahul realized, was far more stable than emotion alone.

His phone buzzed one last time.

A final message before sleep.

“Goodnight.”

He smiled softly.

“Goodnight.”

No analysis.

No hidden meaning.

No uncertainty.

Just exchange.

Just continuity.

And as Rahul closed his eyes that night, he understood something quietly permanent:

Noise had once been how he knew something mattered.

But now—

stillness was enough.

Because it wasn’t empty anymore.

It was shared.

And in that shared stillness, nothing needed to prove itself to survive.

It simply existed.

That line stayed with Rahul longer than he expected it to.

Not as something profound he was trying to decode.

But as something quietly true, sitting in the background of his thoughts like a steady presence that didn’t demand attention anymore.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the urge to define what he was feeling immediately.

Not everything needed naming.

Not everything needed control.

Some things—he was slowly learning—just worked better when left untouched.

The next few days settled into an almost unfamiliar calm.

Not the kind of calm that comes after resolution.

But the kind that exists when nothing is actively breaking.

Rahul noticed it in small ways.

He didn’t rush replies anymore.

He didn’t reread messages multiple times looking for hidden tones.

He didn’t pause before calls wondering what version of himself he needed to be.

He just… showed up.

As he was.

At work, this shift became even more noticeable.

A new task came in—something slightly outside his usual scope.

Earlier, he would have hesitated.

Not because he lacked skill.

But because he would have overestimated risk, imagined failure scenarios, and delayed acceptance until uncertainty turned into anxiety.

Now, when his manager explained it, Rahul simply nodded.

“I’ll take it.”

No internal debate.

No emotional negotiation.

Just decision.

Later that afternoon, one of his teammates looked at him while they were reviewing notes.

“You’re not overthinking anymore,” she said.

Rahul paused.

“I still think,” he replied.

“I know,” she said. “But you don’t get stuck in it.”

That distinction felt important again.

Thinking wasn’t the problem.

Getting trapped inside it was.

He leaned back slightly.

“I think I stopped treating uncertainty like danger,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow.

“What do you treat it as now?”

Rahul thought for a moment.

“Just… information I don’t have yet.”

That answer surprised even him slightly.

Because it sounded simple.

But it changed everything.

That evening, he didn’t go straight home.

Instead, he stayed back a little longer at the office, finishing up small tasks without urgency.

Not because he was avoiding something.

But because he wasn’t escaping anything either.

That difference mattered more than he could explain.

When he finally stepped out, the sky was already dimming.

The city was entering its softer phase again—less noise, more rhythm.

He walked slowly, phone in hand, but not immediately checking it.

For once, he wasn’t reaching for connection.

He was already inside it.

Eventually, he called her.

She picked up almost immediately.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” Rahul replied.

“You sound late,” she noticed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Stayed back a bit.”

“Busy or lost in thought?” she asked lightly.

Rahul smiled faintly.

“Neither,” he said. “Just… not rushing out anymore.”

There was a short pause.

Then she said softly:

“That sounds peaceful.”

“It is,” he admitted.

They walked through conversation naturally again.

But something subtle had changed in the rhythm between them.

There was less checking.

Less reassurance-seeking.

More continuity.

More assumption of presence without needing confirmation.

At one point, she said:

“I had a thought today.”

Rahul adjusted his grip on the phone.

“What kind of thought?”

“I think we stopped trying to fix every silence,” she said.

Rahul nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he said. “We did.”

“And it didn’t break anything,” she added.

“No,” he said. “It didn’t.”

A pause.

Then she said:

“It actually made things easier.”

Rahul agreed quietly.

“It did.”

He looked around as he walked.

People crossing roads.

Vendors closing shops.

A man sitting alone scrolling through his phone.

Life continuing in parallel threads.

And somehow, he no longer felt separate from it.

“I used to think relationships needed constant maintenance,” Rahul said after a moment.

“Don’t they?” she asked.

“They do,” he said. “But not constant repair.”

That distinction mattered.

Maintenance was ongoing.

Repair was reactive.

She hummed softly.

“I think we moved from repair to maintenance,” she said.

Rahul smiled.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “That sounds right.”

A silence followed.

But again, it wasn’t emptiness.

It was shared pacing.

Like two people walking without needing to talk about direction every few steps.

After a while, she said something quieter.

“I don’t feel anxious waiting anymore.”

Rahul slowed his steps slightly.

“You used to?”

“A little,” she admitted. “Not always. But sometimes.”

Rahul stayed quiet for a moment.

Then said softly:

“I used to too.”

That honesty didn’t feel heavy anymore.

It just felt complete.

“Not anymore?” she asked.

Rahul thought about it honestly.

“No,” he said. “Not like before.”

“Why not?” she asked.

He looked up at the sky.

Because the sky looked different now too—less like something unpredictable, more like something consistent even in change.

“Because I stopped assuming silence means something is wrong,” he said.

She didn’t respond immediately.

Then softly:

“That’s a big shift.”

“It is,” Rahul agreed.

The call continued for a while after that.

But neither of them rushed to fill space anymore.

They let pauses happen naturally.

And instead of anxiety rising inside them, something else took its place.

Understanding.

That night, Rahul reached home later than usual.

He didn’t feel tired in the way he used to.

Not drained.

Not overwhelmed.

Just… full in a quiet way.

He sat down on his bed, phone still in hand, but not opening anything immediately.

He stared at the wall for a moment.

Not thinking in spirals.

Just observing the fact that his mind wasn’t pushing him anywhere urgently anymore.

A message came.

“Reached?”

He smiled.

“Yeah.”

Then paused.

Added:

“Just got in.”

Her reply came quickly.

“Okay.”

Then after a second:

“I like this version of us.”

Rahul read that twice.

Not analyzing it.

Just receiving it.

He replied:

“Same.”

And that was it.

No follow-up needed.

No explanation required.

No emotional closure loop.

Just acknowledgment.

He put his phone down.

And for a long moment, he didn’t move.

Didn’t turn on music.

Didn’t open his laptop.

Didn’t distract himself.

Because for the first time, he realized something subtle but permanent:

He wasn’t waiting for emotional stability anymore.

He was living inside it.

And it didn’t feel dramatic.

It didn’t feel like achievement.

It didn’t feel like victory.

It just felt normal.

But this time, normal didn’t mean empty.

It meant steady.

It meant shared.

It meant something that didn’t collapse in silence anymore.

Rahul lay back on his bed, eyes open, breathing slow.

And somewhere in that quiet, he understood something deeper than all the earlier realizations.

He didn’t need emotional intensity to prove connection anymore.

He didn’t need uncertainty to validate feeling.

He didn’t need chaos to confirm importance.

Because what they had now wasn’t built on reaction.

It was built on presence.

And presence, he realized, didn’t need noise to survive.

It only needed continuity.

And that continuity wasn’t something they were chasing anymore.

It was something they were already inside.

He closed his eyes slowly.

And for the first time in a long time, sleep didn’t feel like escape from thought.

It felt like rest inside something that no longer needed to be questioned.

And in that rest, Rahul finally understood:

Some connections don’t stay alive because they are intense.

They stay alive because they are steady enough to hold even silence without fear.

And now—

they were exactly that.

And yet, Rahul found something strange about “exactly.”

It sounded final when written, but in lived experience, nothing ever stayed fixed in that shape. Even stability had movement inside it. Even peace had small shifts you only noticed when you stopped chasing bigger emotions.

He realized this one evening when he was sitting at his desk, not working, not scrolling—just existing in that in-between state where time didn’t feel urgent.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the fan.

Outside, the city was doing what it always did—continuing without asking permission.

Inside, Rahul was doing something he wasn’t used to:

Nothing.

Not avoidance.

Not distraction.

Just… pause.

His phone lay face up on the table.

No notifications.

No urgency.

And for once, he didn’t interpret that as absence.

He simply saw it as space.

Space that didn’t need filling.

Still, his mind didn’t stay completely still.

It drifted—not toward anxiety, but toward reflection.

He thought about how different “normal” had become.

A few months ago, normal meant uncertainty that he tolerated.

Before that, normal meant emotional turbulence he had started to believe was just part of connection.

And now?

Normal meant something he didn’t have to brace himself for.

That difference still felt unreal sometimes.

Not because it was perfect.

But because it didn’t hurt.

His phone buzzed.

A message.

“Busy?”

He smiled faintly before even checking the name.

It was her.

He replied:

“Not really. Just sitting.”

A pause.

Then:

“Doing nothing again?”

Rahul chuckled softly.

He typed:

“Apparently I’ve become someone who sits now.”

Almost instantly:

“That’s new.”

He leaned back in his chair.

This was the kind of conversation that would have confused his older self.

No urgency.

No emotional spike.

No hidden tension.

Just observation.

Just presence being acknowledged.

“You sound calm,” she said over call a few minutes later.

“I am,” Rahul replied.

“Like actually calm?” she asked, slightly amused.

Rahul thought about it.

“I don’t think I trust chaos the way I used to,” he said.

There was a soft pause on the other end.

“That sounds like growth,” she said.

“It feels like boredom sometimes,” Rahul admitted honestly.

That made her laugh lightly.

“Boredom is just unfamiliar peace,” she said.

Rahul repeated that in his mind.

Unfamiliar peace.

It fit too well.

After a moment, she asked something unexpected.

“Do you ever feel like we’re not… dramatic enough now?”

Rahul raised an eyebrow.

“What does that mean?”

“You know,” she said. “No fights, no emotional chaos, no intense highs or lows. Just… steady.”

Rahul leaned forward slightly.

“Do you miss that?” he asked.

There was a pause.

“I don’t think I miss it,” she said slowly. “I think I just don’t recognize stability as strongly sometimes.”

Rahul understood that.

Because stability didn’t announce itself.

It didn’t demand attention.

It just… stayed.

“I used to think intensity meant importance,” Rahul said quietly.

“And now?” she asked.

“Now I think consistency does,” he replied.

That sentence felt more real the moment he said it.

There was a soft silence between them again.

Not the kind that needed fixing.

The kind that existed because neither of them felt the need to rush it away.

“You’ve changed a lot,” she said after a while.

Rahul smiled slightly.

“So have you.”

“I know,” she admitted. “But yours feels more… internal.”

Rahul nodded slowly.

“It is,” he said. “Nothing outside had to break for it to happen.”

That realization still felt new sometimes.

No external collapse.

No dramatic turning point.

Just gradual internal restructuring.

“Do you ever worry it could go back?” she asked suddenly.

Rahul didn’t answer immediately.

Because that question didn’t come from fear alone.

It came from memory.

From experience.

From knowing what emotional instability felt like before it settled.

“Yes,” he said finally.

She didn’t react quickly.

She just listened.

“But not the same way,” Rahul continued. “Not like before.”

“What’s different?” she asked.

“I don’t think I fear the feeling anymore,” he said. “I just trust we won’t ignore it if it comes back.”

That distinction mattered.

Fear used to make him reactive.

Now awareness made him responsive.

There was a soft hum on the other end.

“I think that’s what changed most,” she said.

“What?” Rahul asked.

“The way we respond to discomfort,” she said. “Earlier we avoided it. Now we talk about it.”

Rahul nodded even though she couldn’t see him.

“Yeah,” he said. “We don’t leave it unspoken anymore.”

A pause followed.

Not empty.

Just reflective.

Then she said something quieter.

“I don’t think I feel the need to be understood immediately anymore.”

Rahul blinked slightly.

“That’s new,” he said.

“It is,” she agreed. “But it feels… lighter.”

Rahul leaned back again.

“Same,” he admitted. “I stopped trying to decode everything instantly.”

That realization sat between them for a moment.

Earlier versions of themselves would have filled that space with analysis.

Now, they simply let it exist.

Eventually, she said softly:

“I think this is what people mean when they say relationships mature.”

Rahul smiled faintly.

“If this is maturity,” he said, “it’s a lot quieter than I expected.”

She laughed lightly.

“It always is,” she replied.

Later that night, after the call ended, Rahul didn’t immediately sleep.

He stayed seated on his bed, lights off, phone beside him.

Not thinking about anything specific.

Just noticing.

He noticed how his mind no longer searched for problems by default.

He noticed how silence no longer felt like absence.

He noticed how connection didn’t require constant reinforcement to feel real anymore.

And slowly, another understanding formed.

Not as a thought.

But as recognition.

They weren’t maintaining stability anymore.

They had internalized it.

That meant something deeper than behavior change.

It meant emotional pattern change.

Rahul lay back slowly, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he was trying to keep something alive.

He felt like he was part of something that had learned how to stay alive on its own.

Not independently.

Not separately.

But together.

Without pressure.

Without fear.

Without noise.

And that realization didn’t feel like an ending either.

It felt like structure.

Like something that would continue without needing to be constantly examined.

He closed his eyes.

And in the quiet that followed, he finally understood what “exactly that” truly meant.

It didn’t mean perfection.

It didn’t mean certainty.

It didn’t even mean permanence.

It meant:

They had reached a point where nothing needed to break for them to notice each other.

And nothing needed to be loud for them to stay connected.

It simply continued.

And for Rahul, that continuity was enough.

To be continue...