Shruthi's apartment buzzed with new sounds - the soft hum of her dishwasher, the whirr of her heater, the city's sirens in the distance. But none of it replaced the warmth of Arjun's voice.

Still, she buried herself in work - deadlines, pitches, late-night presentations. She told herself she was building something - a future, a life, a version of herself she could be proud of. But some nights, she'd fall asleep in her work clothes, phone still in hand, unread messages from Arjun sitting silently on the screen.

Back in Chennai, Arjun sat alone at the dining table.

Two plates.

One empty.

He had begun talking less, even at work. His friends stopped asking if he was okay - the default reply had become too routine. He stopped watching their old favorite shows. It hurt too much. The couch still dipped where she used to curl up, and her coffee mug remained in the kitchen rack, untouched.

One night, he texted her:

"Do you still feel us?"

No reply. Not for hours.

Then came:

"Sorry, busy day. Can we talk tomorrow?"

But "tomorrow" kept shifting.

Shruthi wasn't avoiding him on purpose. But every time she heard his voice, a wave of guilt would rise. She felt like she was failing - at being a wife, at staying close, at giving him the love he deserved.

But she didn't know how to fix it. Not from so far away. Not when she was still trying to fix herself.

Arjun, on the other hand, stared at their anniversary photo, wondering if love had an expiry date.

They weren't fighting.

They weren't angry.

They were just? vanishing.

And perhaps that was worse.

Here's the next part in their journey: