The lights are
on now.

Maya remembered exactly where she was standing. She was in the kitchen, he was in the doorway. He had said — clearly, not in anger, almost matter-of-factly — "You're the problem in every relationship you've ever had."

She was so shocked she said nothing. She replayed it three times that night before she fell asleep. Two days later, she brought it up.

"I never said that," he said. Not defensively. Calmly. Like she was describing a dream.

"You did. In the kitchen. You were standing in the doorway."

"Maya. I would never say something like that. You know that. I think you might have misheard me, or maybe you were already upset about something and—"

She went back through her phone looking for something — a text, anything — that could anchor the conversation. There was nothing. She had no evidence except the image of him standing in a doorway, and the weight of something she was increasingly less sure she had heard correctly.

She apologised the next day.

He apologised beautifully. She had always thought so. The apologies were long, specific, and detailed — he would name exactly what he had done and why it was wrong, which made them feel more considered than a simple sorry.

This was the fourth one in six months. She had not planned to count. But sitting across from him watching his face, she found herself thinking: four.

"I know I keep doing this," he said. "I think it comes from my fear of being abandoned — I push people away before they can leave. My therapist said—"

She felt the familiar softening. Here was the explanation. Here was the vulnerability. Here was the person doing the work. And she loved him for trying.

Three weeks later. Different words. Same thing.

She was the fifth apology's audience.

For six days straight, he was everything she had ever wanted. He texted first in the morning. He made specific plans. He said things that felt like he had been thinking about her when they were apart.

On the seventh day, his replies came slower. By day nine, one-word answers. By day eleven, she had sent three messages without a real response and was lying in bed at midnight trying to figure out what she had said on day six that changed everything.

She couldn't find it. She went back through their messages the way you check a fire exit — methodically, looking for the exact moment the warmth left.

On day fourteen he texted at 11pm: "Miss you. Can I come over?"

She said yes. The relief was physical. And the six days that followed were the best six days they'd ever had.

She told the story at the dinner table — the one about her promotion, which had finally come through after two years of applying for it. She was genuinely proud. She had not felt that cleanly proud of herself in a long time.

He was smiling the way he did when she was talking about something he was about to have a perspective on.

"I mean, it's a lateral move more than a promotion," he said, to the table. "The title change is bigger than the actual change in responsibility."

There was a small silence. She heard herself say "Yeah, that's fair actually."

On the drive home, she tried to figure out if he was right. She decided, by the time they got back, that he probably was. She stopped mentioning the promotion after that.

She and Priya had been friends since university. They used to speak every week.

It hadn't been a fight. It hadn't been anything specific. It had just become — gradually, without a moment she could point to — easier not to go. He would make a comment about Priya that wasn't quite a criticism, just a question mark. "Does she always talk about herself that much?" Or after she got home: "You seem kind of off. Was it a good night?" in a tone that suggested it wasn't.

She had started editing what she told Priya. Then she started cancelling more. Then the weeks between calls became months.

She didn't notice until she needed someone and realised she wasn't sure who she would call anymore.

She applied for the job in Edinburgh on a Thursday. She did not tell him she was applying. She told herself it was because she wanted to see if she got it first — but sitting with that, she knew it wasn't entirely true.

She got the interview. Then she told him.

The conversation lasted two hours. He didn't say no — he never said no. He asked questions. How long would she be away? What would happen to them if she got it? Had she thought about what this would mean for the relationship? Did she think her timing was fair, given everything they were working on right now?

She withdrew her application on Saturday morning. She told herself it was her decision.

It was her decision. That's what made it so difficult to name.

She was looking for a file on her phone when she came across a photo from three years ago — a night out with her friends, arms around each other, mid-laugh at something she could no longer remember.

She stared at it for a long time.

Not because she looked different physically, though she did, slightly. Because of the expression. That person looked like she had no idea anything was coming. She looked like she assumed things would be fine. She looked easy.

She tried to remember what that felt like. Not the specific night — the posture. The assumption of fine. The absence of the bracing she had become so used to she no longer noticed it.

She put her phone down. She did not find the file she had been looking for.