Until We Meet Again.

Episode 16: The Silence That Stayed

Silence isn’t always empty.

Sometimes, it’s full of everything you didn’t say.

Everything you should’ve said.

Everything you wish you could take back.

I didn’t cry when I got home.

Which was strange.

Because it felt like I should.

Like this was the kind of moment that deserved tears, dramatic breakdowns, something loud enough to match the way everything inside me felt.

But there was nothing.

Just quiet.

Just stillness.

Just me… sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at nothing.

Trying to understand how something that felt so real could suddenly feel so uncertain.

My phone sat beside me.

Face down.

Silent.

I didn’t touch it.

Didn’t check it.

Didn’t want to know if he messaged.

Because if he didn’t—

that would hurt.

And if he did—

I didn’t know what I’d say.

So I did nothing.

And somehow—

that felt worse.

The next day felt heavier.

Like everything had weight.

Every step.

Every word.

Every thought.

“Lia.”

I looked up.

Mara was watching me again.

Of course she was.

She always knew.

“You look like you lost something,” she said.

I gave a small, humorless smile.

“Maybe I did.”

She didn’t joke this time.

Didn’t tease.

Just pulled a chair closer.

“What happened?”

I hesitated.

Then—

“He’s leaving.”

Her expression changed instantly.

“What?”

“He got accepted abroad. For a year.”

She blinked.

“And he didn’t tell you?”

I shook my head.

“I found out from a message.”

Mara winced.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

Then she asked carefully—

“What are you going to do?”

I let out a breath.

“I don’t know.”

That answer again.

Always that answer.

And I was starting to hate it.

I tried to focus on class.

On notes.

On anything that wasn’t him.

But everything reminded me of him.

The café.

The hallway.

Even my phone felt heavier now.

Like it carried something I wasn’t ready to face.

By lunch—

I gave in.

I picked it up.

Checked it.

Nothing.

No message.

No call.

Nothing.

And that—

that hurt more than I expected.

I didn’t realize I was staring until Mara spoke again.

“You want him to text you.”

It wasn’t a question.

I didn’t answer.

“You want him to fix it,” she continued.

I looked away.

“He should.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

I swallowed.

“Then… I guess that tells me everything.”

The words came out quieter than I intended.

More honest than I wanted.

Mara didn’t respond.

Because she didn’t have to.

By the time I got home, the silence had followed me.

Still there.

Still heavy.

Still waiting.

I dropped my bag and sat on my bed again.

Same position.

Same feeling.

Different day.

And then—

my phone buzzed.

I froze.

Stared at it.

Didn’t move.

Because suddenly—

this felt bigger than just a message.

This felt like a decision.

It buzzed again.

I grabbed it.

Before I could stop myself.

Aidan calling…

My heart raced.

I stared at the screen.

Answer.

Don’t answer.

Answer.

Don’t—

I answered.

“…Hello.”

Silence.

For a second.

Then—

“Hi.”

His voice.

Softer than usual.

Careful.

Like he didn’t know if he was allowed to be here anymore.

“You called,” I said.

“I know.”

Another pause.

“I didn’t text,” he added.

“I noticed.”

“I figured.”

Silence again.

But this one—

this one felt different.

Not comfortable.

Not familiar.

Just… fragile.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he admitted.

“You could’ve tried.”

“I know.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t.”

The honesty should’ve helped.

It didn’t.

“I kept thinking about yesterday,” he said.

“So did I.”

“I messed up.”

“Yes.”

He exhaled slowly.

“I should’ve told you.”

“Yes.”

“I should’ve trusted you with it.”

“Yes.”

Every answer felt like a weight.

Like something being confirmed instead of fixed.

“I don’t want this to end like that,” he said quietly.

I closed my eyes.

“Like what?”

“Like we’re suddenly strangers again.”

I swallowed.

“Then don’t make it feel like that.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

Silence.

Then—

“What do you want, Lia?”

That question again.

Always that question.

And I still didn’t have a simple answer.

“I want honesty,” I said.

“You have it now.”

“I want more than that.”

“Like what?”

I hesitated.

Because this—

this was the part that mattered.

“I want to know if this is worth holding onto.”

There.

Said it.

No hiding.

No avoiding.

Just truth.

He didn’t answer immediately.

And that delay—

that hesitation—

it scared me.

Because it meant he was thinking.

And thinking meant doubt.

“I don’t want to let you go,” he said finally.

“That’s not the same as staying.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying…” he paused, “I don’t know how to do this right.”

I let out a quiet breath.

“At least you’re honest.”

“I always am.”

“Not always.”

“…Fair.”

Silence again.

Then—

“I leave in two weeks,” he said.

My chest tightened.

Two weeks.

That’s all we had left.

“That’s soon.”

“Yeah.”

“And you were just going to keep that from me too?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t.”

“But you didn’t tell me.”

“I know.”

“And now it feels like a countdown.”

He didn’t respond.

Because that’s exactly what it was.

“I hate this,” I whispered.

“Me too.”

“I hate that this is happening right when things started to feel real.”

“Me too.”

“I hate that I don’t know what we are anymore.”

Silence.

Then—

“I know what you are to me,” he said softly.

My heart skipped.

“Then what am I?”

Pause.

Then—

“Someone I don’t want to lose.”

I closed my eyes.

“That’s not enough.”

“I know.”

The silence after that felt heavier than anything else.

Because we both knew the truth now.

Wanting something—

doesn’t always mean you can keep it.

“I don’t think I can do this halfway,” I said quietly.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I can’t pretend this doesn’t matter when it does.”

“I’m not asking you to pretend.”

“Then what are you asking?”

He hesitated.

“…To stay.”

My breath caught.

Stay.

That word again.

Always that word.

“I am staying,” I said.

“For now.”

“And after?”

Silence.

Because after—

was the part neither of us could answer.

“I don’t want to regret this,” he said.

“Neither do I.”

“Then don’t walk away.”

I swallowed.

“I didn’t walk away.”

“You almost did.”

“…I know.”

Another pause.

Then—

“Can I see you?” he asked.

I hesitated.

Because seeing him—

that meant everything would feel real again.

Closer.

Harder.

But not seeing him—

that felt worse.

“…Okay,” I said.

“Where?”

I thought for a second.

Then—

“The café.”

Of course.

Always the café.

After the call ended, I stared at my phone again.

But this time—

the silence wasn’t empty.

It was waiting.

Because something was changing.

Again.

Not ending.

Not starting.

Just… shifting.

And I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

All I knew was this:

We weren’t done.

Not yet.

But we weren’t the same either.

And maybe—

that was the hardest part.

Because sometimes, the in-between—

the almost, the maybe, the not yet—

hurts more than a clear ending ever could.

And as I got ready to see him again, one thought stayed in my mind.

Clear.

Unavoidable.

We only had two weeks left.

And somehow—

that made every moment feel heavier.

Like it mattered more.

Like it could break us faster.

Or…

maybe—

make us stronger.

I just didn’t know which one it would be.