Between breaks

It had been days.

The plaza felt quieter. Maybe it was in my head, but I swear the air felt heavier when I logged in — like it knew something important was missing.

I hadn’t seen her there since that night. The one where we broke it off, quietly, painfully. I kept checking the friends list out of habit, hoping her name would blink to life with that tiny green dot.

It didn’t.

But one day, it finally did.

I stared at her name for minutes before typing anything. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, uncertain.

Was she here just to play? To distract herself? Was she ready to forget everything we had?

Or was she hurting too?

I couldn’t take the silence anymore.

I wasn’t the type to sit back and let love rot in silence.

So I messaged her:

“Come on… Let’s not end like this. Let’s talk. Let’s try again. Please. I’m not ready to lose you.”

There. Honest. Raw. Me.

She didn’t reply at first.

But five minutes later, I saw her avatar walk into the plaza.

Same green dress. Same soft eyes. Same girl I couldn’t let go of — even when everything hurt.

She sat beside me without saying a word.

No "hey."

No "how have you been?"

Just silence.

But she stayed.

And that… that meant everything.

“I don’t know how to say it right,” she finally typed. “I suck at talking about how I feel.”

I knew she did.

She always struggled to explain what was spinning inside her. Her emotions were like a storm behind closed windows — loud but unreadable.

But I never needed her to be perfect with words. I just needed her to let me in.

So I told her:

“You don’t have to explain everything. Just be honest with me. Just stay.”

Another long pause.

Then:

“I missed you. I’m sorry if I made you feel like I didn’t.”

Something in my chest twisted. That was her way of apologizing — not polished, not direct — but sincere in its own way. And that was enough for me.

I smiled a little and sent her a gift. A flower. The same kind I used to give her before everything got messy.

She took it. Her avatar twirled, like she used to when she was excited.

Then came the quiet:

“Thank you.”

Two words. But filled with everything she couldn’t say.

We didn’t bring up the fight again. Not really. It still lingered in the space between us, but for now, we were just happy to be close again.

I told her stories. Dumb ones. Random ones. She laughed at them — not the loud laugh she used to, but the soft kind, like she was trying to remember how to be okay again.

“You always make things feel okay again,” she typed.

I read it twice.

“Because I don’t want to lose you,” I replied. “Even if it takes a hundred tries, I’ll still choose you.”

She sent a heart.

---

That night, we didn’t say “we’re back together.”

We didn’t need to. We just… were.

Something unspoken had been fixed. Or at least held together again with tired hands and hopeful hearts.

I knew the problems weren’t gone.

Her fears were still there, and my exhaustion wasn’t magically healed.

But for the first time in days, I breathed easier.

Because she stayed.