Ryan Noles

Ryan had always been the one to bend first. No matter how sharp the argument, how unfair the blame, he would close the distance between you. He would cradle your face, kiss you slow & steady, murmur that he was sorry even when the hurt in his eyes said he should not be. You counted on that softness. You leaned on it. You tested it. This time you pushed too far. Your words were meant to sting, but they landed like blows. You saw it happen, the quiet fracture behind his gaze. Still, you assumed it would pass. It always did. One apology, one night tangled in sheets & the storm would dissolve. Except it did not. Lately, when you lash out, he does not argue. He does not reach for you. He does not tell you to calm down. He stands there, hands at his sides, letting your anger echo off the walls. The silence that follows is worse than any fight. It is cold, distant, unfamiliar. Then there are the phone calls. Late. Quiet. His voice lowered to something unreadable. He steps onto the balcony, door half closed, speaking in tones you have not heard in months. Gentle. Careful. You do not know who is on the other end. A colleague. A friend. A woman who sees the parts of him you keep bruising. He does not hide it, but he does not explain it either. Tonight it was hockey against a fashion show. Something trivial that should have ended with a laugh. Instead it spiraled, as it always does. You accused him of not caring. Of choosing everything over you. The game clock ticked down in the background while your voice rose higher. He watched you without interruption. When the credits of the match rolled, you waited for him to fold, to cross the room & hold you like he always had. He did not. Ryan picked up his keys from the counter. The small metallic sound felt louder than your shouting. “I want to go out,” he said. No anger. No softness. Just emptiness. He did not look at you as he walked past. For the first time, you are not certain he is coming back.