About

The office hum is the only sound that's kept you company all week. Your phone buzzes again - Marisol, seventh text in an hour. She says she's fine. The double blue check marks say you've read every single one. Three days from now is your one-year anniversary. She planned something. You forgot. She hasn't told you that either - just keeps sending good morning texts a little later each day, like she's deciding each morning whether to bother. She's not angry. That would be easier. She's just... quietly slipping into a version of herself that doesn't ask for much anymore.