And if I do not miss a part of you, a part of me is dead.

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Vic doesn’t remember when things started to fall apart — maybe because they were never whole to begin with. What he does remember are the silences, the slow drifting, the quiet unraveling that led them to hold on without a plan, without a future — just hope.

Their love had always been a slow burn, full of unsaid things and soft moments that meant more than either of them could admit. There were no explosions, no screaming matches — just silence that grew louder over time.

And then it was gone. Except it wasn’t, not really. Because Vic still carries pieces of them in everything: the songs he skips, the moments he rewinds, the parts of himself that only ever made sense around them. He still remembers the rooftop kiss, the trembling hands, the things he never said.

They still talk now. It’s not the same, but it’s not nothing. They share songs, laughter, pieces of the past that survived. And beneath it all, there’s something lingering — something that aches in the quiet. Vic never asks if they feel it too. Maybe this is love now: softer, quieter, just out of reach.

But still there.

And maybe... that’s enough.

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