Chapter 2The Echo of a Cold

They say breakups are loud, but this one was hauntingly quiet.

I realized then that ending it wasn’t just about clearing out a closet. It was about purging the digital ghosts—the Instagram posts, the shared albums, the birthday tags.

I’d already archived every photo of Bennett months ago.

I knew he didn’t know.

Ever since we stopped being long-distance and moved in together, he stopped following my life. He was in it, so he felt he didn’t need to watch it.

After one particularly bad fight, I had waved my phone in his face.

“The next time you pull this crap, I’m not just archiving our posts. I’m deleting them. Forever.”

He had just ruffled my hair with a gentle, patronizing smile and said nothing.

He was so certain I would never leave. Even if his face vanished from my feed, he wouldn't panic. He saw my threats as a game.

I’d joked once, “Bennett, do you even care? You haven't liked a single post of mine in six months.”

He was busy de-shelling prawns for my dinner plate. He frowned slightly. “Harper, I just spent an hour calming you down. I’m exhausted. Can we not do this right now?”

I looked at the pile of perfectly cleaned seafood on my plate, a mountain of effort he’d made for me. He hadn't eaten a bite himself. He was always busy ‘doing’ things.

Suddenly, I wanted to cry.

I couldn’t even remember why we had been in a cold war for a week. I just remembered that I was the one who broke first, the one who apologized and went back to him.

He was like he always was—taking me out to a nice dinner, talking about everything and nothing.

In our friend group, I was the “dramatic” one, and Bennett was the saint who put up with me.

“Infinite tolerance”—that was the label they gave him. Because no matter how many times I mentioned leaving, I knew that if I turned around, he’d be there.

But Bennett would never take that extra step forward. He was perfectly self-contained. He never admitted fault.

He was immune to my pouting, my logic, and my tears. If I pushed too hard, the silence just lasted longer.

Once, we didn't speak for an entire week. Every day, I fought a war inside my head.

In the end, I was the one who crawled back.

I remember the smell of creamy mushroom pasta wafting from the kitchen. Bennett was in his apron, focused on his knife work, making my favorite meal.

But there was no apology. Not a single word.

I tugged at his sleeve.

“Can you tell me when you’re unhappy? Your silence affects my mood. When you don’t speak, I feel like you don’t need me anymore.”

Bennett put down the knife. His hair fell over his eyes, obscuring his expression.

His voice was gentle, as always.

“Harper, am I good to you?”

I nodded.

“If you're here because you want to make up, welcome. But if you’re here to prove I was wrong again, maybe you need more time to cool off.”

He had his own logic.

Why share the bad parts? If you know an emotion is negative, why pass that poison to your partner?

At the time, I had looked into his eyes and hugged him tight.

“Because that’s what lovers do. They share the weight.”

He laughed and pressed my head against his chest, his chin resting on my hair.

That day, I posted a quote on my story:

“We share the cold fronts, the thunder, the lightning; we share the mist, the rainbows, and the dawn.”

But time proved he never intended to share the storm. Every frustration at the office, every stress from the startup—he swallowed it all alone.

So when I tried to share my work stress with him, he just frowned.

“Harper, we’re adults. We should have the ability to process our own emotions.”

In his eyes, my need for emotional support was childish.

I thought he was right. I thought I was the immature one. After all, everyone told me how lucky I was.

He took his company public in three years. He was handsome, loyal, and had zero vices. He remembered every preference I had. No matter how busy he was, he’d come home and cook a gourmet meal, never letting me lift a finger in the kitchen.