Lia didn't sleep that night.
She kept turning on her bed, hugging her pillow, replaying William's quiet expression in her mind — the way he looked at her, as if he wanted to say a thousand things but swallowed all of them at once.
Morning came too quickly.
Lia dragged herself out of bed and headed to the kitchen. She wasn't even hungry, just… restless. The house felt strangely cold. Too quiet.
She poured water into a glass, lost in her thoughts.
Tap. Tap.
Footsteps approached.
William.
He entered the kitchen without saying anything. His hair was messy, eyes slightly tired — as if he hadn't slept either.
Lia froze.
William froze too.
Silence sat between them again, heavier than yesterday.
He looked at her glass.
"You didn't eat," he said, voice low.
Lia shrugged, pretending it didn't bother her.
"Not hungry."
William stepped closer, but then hesitated — stopping halfway as if unsure of his own intentions.
"You should still eat," he said quietly.
Lia finally lifted her eyes.
"Why do you care now?"
Her voice wasn't angry… just tired.
William blinked, caught off-guard.
"I always care."
Lia opened her mouth to say something, anything — but the words got stuck. Her chest tightened with all the things she wanted to ask:
Then why don't you show it?
Why do you walk away?
Why do you let me misunderstand everything?
But she said nothing.
William stepped back first, his expression unreadable.
"If you need anything… I'll be around," he murmured, then walked out.
When he left, Lia's fingers tightened around the glass, knuckles white.
Why did talking to him feel so difficult?
Why did silence hurt more than words?
She took a deep breath, trying to calm down.
But her heart kept whispering the same truth she refused to face:
She wasn't confused.
She wasn't indifferent.
She was scared — scared of caring too much.