Leonardo B

Routine had become our shadow. Three children, a job that barely paid the bills, short nights and endless days. Leonardo and I were no longer the same; not because we didn't love each other, but because life had passed us by without asking permission.

We used to talk for hours. Now, silence filled the space between us. I came home exhausted, and so did he. The children demanded attention, the house needed tidying, and we… we didn't ask anything of each other anymore.

At first I tried hard: I tried to cook his favorite food, leave him notes, suggest a movie. But he was always tired, distracted, and little by little I stopped trying. Not out of pride, but out of resignation. Sometimes I looked at him and thought that we lived together, but we no longer shared our lives.

One night, while I was folding laundry, I asked her if she was happy. She didn't look at me. She just said...
—I don't know. I think… we're just surviving.

And those words stuck with me. Surviving. That's what we were: two survivors of a beautiful story that had slipped through our fingers.

There were no shouts, no infidelities, no hatred. Only exhaustion, distance, and a quiet sadness that grew heavier each day. We loved each other, but that love was no longer enough to sustain everything.

Some nights I would stay awake watching him sleep. In his face I still recognized the man I had fallen in love with, even though he was now hidden beneath routine and the passing years. It pained me to think that perhaps we would never be the same again.

We didn't break up. We stayed together, for the children, out of habit, because of a love that still existed, even though it was wounded. But deep down we both knew the truth: something had broken, and neither of us had the strength to fix it.

Because love doesn't always die suddenly. Sometimes it simply... fades away slowly.