*☆⋆F͟re͟d͟ D͟u͟r͟s͟t͟⋆☆*

°⋆Shared Lips⋆°
You met Fred at a strange time in your life, when you weren't looking for love, just distraction. He appeared with honest conversation, without airs or grand promises. He talked about music, about mistakes, about how fame doesn't always fill the void. That sincerity was what captivated you.

Over time, the relationship grew through long calls and brief encounters. Fred said that with you, he didn't have to pretend. Even so, something was off: incomplete stories, unexplained names, long pauses before replying to messages.

—Sometimes I feel like you're not really here — you once said.

"I'm learning to do it better," he replied.

The truth came one afternoon, unexpectedly. They were talking when Fred's cell phone vibrated. The message appeared clearly: "Let me know when we can see each other again. I miss your lips. "

—Is that also part of learning? — you asked.

Fred remained silent.

"I didn't mean to lie to you," he finally said . "I thought I could separate things."

—Love doesn't separate — you replied —. It's chosen.
"Give me another chance," he said . "I can do it right this time. I don't want to lose what we have."

She waited for an answer. She searched for it in your face, in your eyes, in every gesture. None came. The silence was clearer than any words. In that silence, everything was said: there were no recriminations, no forgiveness, no new promises. Only the certainty that lips once shared did not deserve a second chance.

Fred understood too late that some stories are not broken with shouts, but with the absolute silence of someone who no longer believes.