Lia had rehearsed this conversation a dozen times in her head, but when the moment came, the words still felt jagged and wrong. It was late, the kind of hour when everything felt heavier and more honest. Adam’s voice had been soft at first, trailing off into silences that Lia had grown accustomed to filling. But tonight, she let the silences sit, heavy and unbroken.
The words caught in her throat for a moment, her resolve faltering under the weight of what she was about to say. “We can’t keep doing this,” she said finally, her voice trembling as the words left her. The sentence echoed in her head, brittle and hollow.
Adam paused, his breath hitching slightly on the other end of the line. “What do you mean?” he asked cautiously, his tone already carrying a hint of disbelief.
“I mean…” She swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the blanket draped over her legs. “I mean we need to stop. This—” she gestured vaguely, even though he couldn’t see her. “This isn’t healthy. For either of us.”
His laugh was sharp, bitter. “Healthy? That’s what you’re worried about now?”
She hesitated, the weight of his words pressing against her resolve. “It’s not about worry,” she said softly, her chest tightening. “It’s about us trying to survive this without breaking.”
“Survive,” he repeated, his voice thick with disbelief. “Do you really think we can go back to being just acquaintances? After everything?”
Her heart twisted painfully. “I’m saying we need to be something different,” she said, her voice breaking on the last word. “Friends. Just friends.”
The word sat between them like a wall.
Adam let out a bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the fragile connection between them. “Friends. After everything we’ve said? After everything we’ve been? We are so much more than friends, and you know it. I told you everything about me. Everything.”
“It’s the only way we don’t destroy each other,” she said quietly, her voice trembling under the weight of her own argument.
“Destroy what?” he snapped. “Because it feels like you’re leaving me to save yourself from whatever it is you are running from.”
Her chest ached at his words, but she forced herself to stay steady. “Maybe I am,” she admitted, her voice breaking with the confession. “But I can’t be everything for you, Adam. I can’t. I cannot give you what you need. I cannot save you.”
The silence that followed was unbearable. She could hear his breathing, uneven and shallow, and it was all she could do not to take it back, to say something that would make it better.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, softer. “I don’t think I know how to do this, Lia. Just being friends.”
“We’ll figure it out,” she said, the words more for herself than for him. The call disconnected and Lia put the phone down. Her chest was burning and there was no air. She wanted to call Adam and tell him that she hadn’t meant her words. She wanted to tell him that she needed him. All of him. But she couldn’t. Instead she allowed herself to cry and to grieve the friendship she had just destroyed by sticking up for herself.
The days that followed were eerily quiet. The steady rhythm of their conversations, the texts that had punctuated her mornings and evenings, were suddenly absent. Lia told herself this was what she had wanted, what she had needed and asked of him. But the silence felt like a void, a hollow ache that she carried with her everywhere she went.
She buried herself in work, in chores, in the small, mindless tasks that filled her days. But no matter how busy she kept herself, her mind wandered back to him.
When Adam finally did call, his voice was cautious, careful. “I wasn’t sure if I should call,” he said. “But… I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Lia closed her eyes, her chest aching. “I miss you too,” she admitted, the words spilling out before she could stop them. He was back and she finally felt like she was able to breathe again, to think again. The world was easier to navigate with him in her life.
Their friendship began to rebuild itself slowly after that, but it was different now. The warmth was still there, but it was tinged with hesitancy, as though they were walking on thin ice. Both of them knew now that their bond was fragile; deep but fragile. Lia told herself this was better, safer. But in the quiet moments, she found herself missing the fire they had shared, the connection that had once made her feel so alive.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the room in golden light, Lia picked up her phone and stared at Adam’s name in her contacts. Her thumb hovered over the call button, her pulse quickening. The room seemed too quiet, the soft hum of the refrigerator amplified in the silence.
Her hand trembled slightly as she pressed call, the weight of the silence between rings making her heartbeat thunder in her ears.
“Lia,” Adam said, his voice soft and cautious.
“Hi,” she replied, her voice trembling slightly. “I just… I wanted to check in. See how you’re doing.”
He paused, and she could hear the sound of him exhaling. “I’m okay,” he said finally. “Trying to be, anyway. What about you?”
She swallowed hard, her throat tightening. “I’m trying too.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Adam said softly, echoing her words from before.
“Yeah,” Lia whispered. “We will.” There was no doubt in her mind that they could make it work. Whatever it was.
reflections of an unquiet mind 