He stopped reaching.
Not because he didn't care.
Because he cared too much.
Because caring meant danger.
If he held on,
he might ruin her.
So he let go.
Brick by brick.
Silence stacked higher.

She noticed.
Of course she did.
At first, she kept talking.
Little stories.
Family fights.
Jokes about dying young.
Her day, unfiltered.
Her heart, wide open.

But his answers faded.
Then disappeared.
And she wondered—
Was it too much?
Was it me?
Maybe he stopped
because she overshared.
Maybe her cracks
were too loud.
Too heavy.
Too real.

So she folded herself smaller.
Cut the stories down
to few words:
"How's ur day?"
Different sentences.
Same meaning.
Safe. Harmless. Forgettable.

He read them all.
Every single one.
She knew he did.
"Seen."
Always seen.
Never answered.

She was scared he was bored.
He was scared he'd break her.
Two fears.
Two walls.
Growing higher each day.

Close enough to hear echoes.
Too far to ever touch.