When Love Falls Silent

Liam

It's been weeks since I visited her home and savored her homemade spaghetti. Since then, I've been craving homemade food, but all I seem to get is takeout. She hasn't invited me over again, and I haven't been successful in convincing her to come to my place either. I've extended the invitation numerous times, but she always hesitates, and I understand and respect her reasons. Our relationship remains confined to that of colleagues and old classmates. We don't do the things friends typically do, like hanging out after work or on weekends. It's as if she gets uncomfortable, and I can't help but grasp the underlying reasons. 

It's her past, a chapter she'd rather forget. Whenever she's with people who knew her back then, like me, she seems torn between embracing happiness and excitement and the fear of judgment. But she's got it all wrong. I don't see her in that light. I want her to be happy, to let go of the past that wasn't her fault. I hope our connection could become more than just classmates or colleagues, and I hope that one day she'll realize that.

I found myself waiting at her front door as usual. It had become a comforting routine, walking to the office together, sharing our workdays, and then strolling home after work. She rarely hesitated to join me, and I appreciated her company immensely.

However, today was different. She seemed to be running late, and it was unusual for Grace. My mind started to generate reasons for her delay. Perhaps she was taking extra time with her makeup, or maybe she was standing in front of her closet, perplexed about what to wear. Grace typically wore light makeup, and her hair always seemed effortlessly perfect, needing little more than a quick brush. Her wardrobe predominantly consisted of floral dresses that made her look like a mature and elegant woman.

Time ticked away, and almost half an hour had passed since I had resolved to give Grace a little extra time. Concern began to creep in. She was never this late. Deciding to kill some time, I ordered a coffee at her café. However, worry began to gnaw at me, and I couldn't help but wonder why she hadn't arrived yet. I grabbed my phone and composed a text message.

"Are you running late today?" I sent the message, hoping for a swift reply. Five more minutes went by, but there was no response. Now, my concern was escalating, my mind conjuring various unsettling scenarios.

Maybe something had happened to her, or perhaps she'd forgotten to set her alarm and was still asleep. The panic button was well and truly pressed. I decided to call her, my fingers trembling as I dialed her number. It rang thrice before she picked up, but instead of an immediate response, there was an eerie silence on her end.

"Are you asleep?" I inquired, my voice quivering with worry. 

But all I heard from her was my name, uttered softly, "Liam." 

My heart raced, and I repeated her name with increasing concern, "Grace?" Still, silence hung on the line. Panic coursed through me, but finally, her voice broke the stillness, "I'm not feeling well, Liam. I think I need to take the day off."

I leaped from my chair, rushing towards the stairs that led to her apartment. "I'm coming to your house," I declared urgently. My mind filled with a jumble of worries as I raced towards her, determined to make sure she was okay.

Standing outside her door, my phone still pressed to my ear, I knocked gently. The line stayed connected, Grace's voice a comforting presence on the other end. 

"Grace, tell me the password to unlock the door," I requested, the urgency creeping into my voice. Another pause, stretching seconds that felt like hours. My breaths seemed to hang in the air as I waited the silence growing heavy.

Then, she uttered the digits, and as I heard them, my heart seemed to skip a beat. Those numbers held a profound significance, a secret code to the inner sanctum of her world. They represented trust, vulnerability, and a history she carried. Why did she have to remember what happened that day and why this date is her door password, I can't process.