Leo's POV
She doesn't look at me anymore.
That's how I know something is wrong.
Not the silence.
Not the short replies.
Not even the way she moves around the house like I'm just… furniture.
It's her eyes.
Lana used to look at me like I was her answer.
Now she looks through me.
I found her in the kitchen that night, standing still, hands gripping the counter.
"Lana," I called softly.
She didn't turn.
"We need to talk."
A pause.
Then— "About what?"
That tone. Calm. Detached.
It scared me more than anger ever could.
"About us."
She finally faced me.
There was no fire in her eyes.
No tears.
Just distance.
"What about us?" she asked.
I stepped closer. "You've been pushing me away."
She let out a small breath. "Have I?"
"Don't do that," I muttered. "Don't act like nothing's changed."
Her jaw tightened.
"Maybe something has."
My chest tightened. "Then tell me."
Silence.
And then she said the words that hit harder than any accusation:
"You didn't tell me about my mother."
The air left my lungs.
So that's what this is.
"I was going to," I said quickly. "I just—"
"You just what?" she cut in. Not yelling. Not crying. Just steady.
"You decided for me? You decided what I should know?"
"That's not fair," I said, frustration creeping in. "She came to me because she didn't want to stress you. She asked me not to tell you yet."
"And you agreed."
It wasn't a question.
I stayed quiet.
Her lips trembled slightly—but she swallowed it down.
"You always say I'm your partner," she whispered. "But you keep choosing for me."
That hurt.
"I was trying to protect you."
She laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.
"I don't need protection, Leo. I need honesty."
The room felt smaller.
"I thought I was doing the right thing," I said.
"And I thought I could trust you with everything."
That one sentence cracked something inside me.
"You can," I said firmly.
She shook her head.
"I did."
Silence fell between us again—but this time it wasn't empty.
It was full of everything we weren't saying.
"I love you," I said.
She looked at me.
And for the first time in days… I saw pain instead of distance.
"I know," she replied.
That was worse than anger.
Because love was still there.
And so was the damage.
Later that night, she slept on the edge of the bed.
Not touching me.
Not even by accident.
And I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, realizing something terrifying:
You don't lose someone in one moment.
You lose them slowly.
In small decisions.
In withheld truths.
In silence.
And I had no idea how to fix it.