first and last
Their apartment was quiet. Not in the comforting way that soothes you after a long, exhausting day. There was nothing soft or peaceful about it. It was a heavy, dense silence, hanging in the air like dust no one had the strength to wipe away.
Penelope stood by the kitchen counter, staring at the water that had long since boiled. The kettle didn’t need her. It had turned itself off—just like everything between them. No dramatic ending, no explosion. It had simply… stopped working.
Christopher sat in the living room. She could hear him scrolling through something on his phone, the faint, repetitive sound drifting into the kitchen. It used to drive her crazy. Now, it was proof that he was still there. There was something almost comforting in its rhythm.
“I made tea,” she said, even though she knew she didn’t have the strength to raise her voice enough for him to hear.
He didn’t respond. Not because he didn’t want to.
That was just how things were now.
~*~
It hadn’t always been like this… but the beginning is always different.
They used to laugh at the smallest things—things that would seem painfully trivial to them now. They ate dinners on the floor because they didn’t have a table yet. They slept in one bed, too narrow for two people, but it never bothered them. They always found a way to fit. Yes, they were often sleep-deprived, sometimes waking up in awkward positions, but being close to each other made up for all of it.
Eventually, they replaced the bed with a bigger one. Penelope remembered how Christopher used to pull her close in the middle of the night—half-asleep, as if his body instinctively knew he needed her near.
Now they slept at opposite ends. Even though they weren’t fighting.
~*~
The days blurred together. In the mornings, they passed each other in the kitchen like roommates. Brief greetings, quick glances. No tenderness. No eye contact. No real conversations. Just an exchange of information—but never the kind that mattered.
“I’m leaving early.”
“I’ll stay late.”
“Buy milk.”
“Okay.”
Sometimes, Penelope caught herself wanting to say something more. Something real. Something she hadn’t said in a long time.
I miss you.
She could feel how badly she wanted to say it out loud, but the words got stuck somewhere in her throat. As if they were afraid to come out.
Because what if he replied, I don’t?
~*~
Christopher remembered when something started to change. It wasn’t a single day. It was more like a light slowly fading—so gradual you don’t notice when it becomes completely dark.
He began staying at work longer. Not because he had to. It was just easier there. He knew exactly what to do, how to solve problems. He was enough—sometimes even more than enough.
At home… he didn’t know anything anymore. Penelope stopped talking about her days. Or maybe he stopped listening. He wasn’t sure.
Evenings were the worst.
They sat next to each other on the couch, watching something neither of them was really paying attention to. Their minds were far away from the comfortable living room they had once carefully designed to be the coziest place in the apartment.
It used to be.
Now it felt as cold as everything else around them.
The screen glowed. The room was silent.
Sometimes their shoulders brushed—by accident. One of them would always pull away. Not immediately. Subtly. As if it were natural.
As if this was how it was supposed to be.
Even though, deep down, they both knew it wasn’t.
When whatever they were watching ended, they simply got ready for bed. No comments, no discussion. Each of them disappeared into their own routine.
Penelope often left the bathroom light on at night. Not intentionally. Her mind would drift, replaying the day and preparing for the next, and she’d lose track of small things.
Christopher used to turn it off, joking that they weren’t millionaires. Now he did it silently. It was small. Insignificant.
And yet, it hurt more than it should.
~*~
Christopher noticed she had stopped leaving him notes.
They used to be everywhere—on the fridge, by the coffee machine, in his jacket pocket.
Have a good day!
Everything is better with you.
I miss you.
The last one was from months ago. He still kept it in his wallet. He didn’t know why he held on to that one.
He also didn’t know why they had stopped appearing.
That was the worst part.
Nothing had happened between them. No betrayal. No huge fight. No single moment you could point to and say—that’s where it all began. Day by day, they simply fell apart. And the silence kept growing.
Relentless.
Quietly destructive.
~*~
The evening when the facade finally cracked was completely ordinary. At least, it seemed that way.
Penelope came home later than usual. Christopher was sitting on the couch, his phone in his hands. He didn’t look at her right away.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
That was usually where it ended. But not this time.
“I think we need to talk,” she said before she could stop herself.
Christopher froze. Those words never meant anything good. He set his phone down slowly and looked up.
“About what?” he asked carefully.
“About us,” she replied quietly.
Her heart was racing. The words were out, and there was no going back. And his eyes—the same ones she had fallen in love with years ago. She couldn’t remember the last time they had really looked at each other.
Now that they were, her knees felt weak, and every thought in her head tangled together.
“Okay,” he said calmly, though his body was tense.
Silence filled the room again. This time, it felt different. Tighter.
She looked at him and had no idea where to start. Which moment should she begin with? Which memory? Or maybe all of them at once?
The pressure in her throat grew, tears filling her eyes. She turned away abruptly, hiding her face in her hands. She couldn’t get a single word out, even though they were all there, heavy in her chest.
“Penny?” His voice filled the room. Warm. Concerned. Like it used to be.
“I can’t look at you,” she said suddenly.
The words came out wrong.
“O-okay.” He swallowed hard.
“Oh no, I’m sorry!” she rushed, realizing how it sounded. She didn’t turn around. “I don’t mean it like that. I just… if I look at you, I’ll back out.”
"So I’m supposed to talk to your back?” he asked, confused.
“Yes. And I’ll talk to yours.”
She turned. He raised his eyebrows.
“Think about it. I want to be completely honest with you. And I want the same from you. Can you do that? Can you tell me everything—without holding back?”
There was desperation in her voice. Not accusation. A plea.
He nodded slowly.
He stood up and turned off the light. Outside, it was already dark. Only faint streetlights reached the fifth floor, leaving the room in dim shadows.
They brought two chairs and placed them back to back. Then they sat down. Now they both understood—facing each other would have been too much.
Too direct.
This way, no expression could stop the other from speaking. No flinch, no tear, no silence.
Penelope pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
“I don’t remember the last time we were happy,” she said.
Her voice was quiet, but steady. She had rehearsed that sentence a hundred times.
Christopher pressed his lips together.
“Me neither.”
It was the first honest sentence in months.
“Sometimes I feel like we’re strangers,” he added.
“Because we are,” she replied without thinking.
The words hung in the air.
Heavy. True.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked.
He let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Why didn’t you?”
It wasn’t an accusation. Just… curiosity.
“I was scared.”
“Me too,” he whispered. “I’m scared you don’t love me anymore.”
She froze.
Of all the things she expected, not that.
“But you disappeared.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. You’re always at work. And when you’re not, you’re on your phone. I feel like I’m living with a ghost.”
“You pulled away.”
“What do you mean?”
“You used to tell me everything. Your day, your thoughts… You left notes. And then there were fewer. And then none.”
She smiled faintly, tears slipping down her cheeks.
“I felt stupid,” she admitted. “I thought they didn’t matter to you. That you thought they were silly.”
“Are you kidding?” His voice sharpened. “I loved them. They were part of my mornings. A surprise during the day.”
He paused.
“The first day, I thought I just hadn’t found it. The next, that you were in a hurry. Eventually… I stopped explaining it.”
She pulled her knees tighter, overwhelmed.
“I miss you,” she said suddenly, her voice breaking. “Even when you’re sitting right next to me.”
He exhaled.
“I miss you too.”
A tear fell onto his hand. He was grateful for the darkness.
“When did we break?” she asked.
He was quiet for a long time.
“I think… when we stopped asking ‘how do you feel?’ and started asking ‘what’s for dinner?’”
She let out a sad smile.
“That sounds stupid.”
“But it’s true.”
They kept talking. They didn’t want to stop.
Not seeing each other made it easier. Even when one of them wanted to shut down, the other couldn’t see it—so the conversation continued.
Sometimes she cried. Sometimes he did. But something shifted. For the first time in a long time, they weren’t running. When everything had been said, the silence that followed was almost… gentle. They were both hurting. But it felt like a wound finally cleaned—ready to heal.
“Do you think we can fix this?” she asked.
The most important question. The most terrifying one. He closed his eyes.
“I don’t know.”
The honesty hurt more than a lie.
“I don’t know either,” she whispered.
And for the first time in a long time… it was okay not to know.
“Can we try?” she asked softly.
He turned his head slightly, as if wanting to look at her—but stopped himself.
“We can.”
It wasn’t a promise. Not forever. Just… let’s try again.
They didn’t turn around immediately. There was no cinematic moment. No kiss. No music.
Just them. Tired. Hurt. But finally honest.
Sometimes love doesn’t end all at once. It doesn’t explode. It doesn’t fall apart dramatically. Sometimes… it just fades. And then becomes a question:
Do we have the courage to hear it again?
Penelope slowly rested her head against the back of his neck. Christopher held his breath—then let himself stay. And that was the beginning. Not of a new love. But of something that might become it again. Or not.
“Will you stay?” she asked.
The question carried many meanings.
He answered just one.
“Yes.”
For today.
For tomorrow.
For the attempt.
