Once upon a time, in a quiet town nestled between forgotten hills and whispering rivers, lived two souls who once burned brightly for each other — Amara and Kelechi. Their love had begun like a spark in dry grass — wild, unstoppable, and full of warmth. Everyone who saw them believed they were made from the same constellation, dancing to a rhythm the world could not hear.
In the beginning, they talked endlessly. Late-night calls, sunrise walks, love notes tucked in random places. They respected each other’s dreams, guarded each other’s secrets, and looked at each other like the world disappeared when they locked eyes.
But as seasons changed, so did their hearts.
Words became fewer. Messages unanswered. The laughter they once shared turned into silence that screamed. Amara would sit on the couch next to Kelechi, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes pleading for conversation — but he was always on his phone, or lost in thought. He had started to believe she would always be there. She had started to believe she didn’t matter anymore.
One evening, as the rain tapped softly against their window, Amara asked, “Do you still love me?”
Kelechi didn’t look up. “Of course I do.”
“But when was the last time you showed it?”
He had no answer.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, not because he shouted, or cheated, or hit her — but because he was there and yet completely absent.
She had respected him. Loved him. Trusted him with her whole soul. But the pillars of their love had quietly crumbled. Without communication, their bond had weakened. Without respect, she felt invisible. And without trust, her heart was empty.
The next morning, she was gone. She didn’t leave a letter. Only the silence remained — the same silence that had killed their love.
Years later, Kelechi would stare at an old sketch Amara had made of them — tangled in an embrace that now felt like a ghost — and realize what he lost. Not to another man. Not to betrayal.