The days that followed Maxwell's confession were full of light, at least for him. Their late-night conversations stretched on, filled with laughter and small, hopeful promises, like petals scattered over a winding road. Each time he saw Nathan's name flash on his screen, Maxwell's heart did its usual flip, his day suddenly brightened by even the smallest exchange.
But lately, something felt... different. Nathan still showed up on their calls, still joked around and smiled, but there was an undercurrent Maxwell couldn't quite name. It was subtle—a shift in tone, a longer pause here and there. He didn't realize it, but Nathan's laughter was softer, his responses just a little delayed, his expressions sometimes drifting into a place Maxwell couldn't reach.
Maxwell tried to ignore the flickers of unease, brushing them off as nothing. After all, they were still together, and Nathan still smiled when he saw him. Everything should be fine. But every once in a while, he'd catch Nathan staring off into space, his eyes distant, his voice subdued. It made Maxwell's heart twist, but he told himself it didn't mean anything. Nathan had his struggles, and maybe this was just one of those days.
Wednesday, 9:27 p.m.
They were on FaceTime, and Nathan was half-lit by the glow of his screen, his fingers tapping distractedly on the keys of his laptop. Maxwell leaned back on his bed, his own face cast in soft, dim light, watching Nathan with quiet contentment. But he noticed that Nathan's usual animated energy seemed dulled, his posture hunched and withdrawn.
"Hey," Maxwell said softly, hoping to catch his attention. "What're you up to?"
Nathan glanced up, blinking as though he'd forgotten Maxwell was there. "Oh, um... nothing really. Just... kinda zoned out."
"Anything you wanna talk about?"
Nathan hesitated, his eyes flickering to Maxwell's on the screen. For a moment, Maxwell thought he was going to say something, some piece of truth hidden behind his eyes. But then Nathan shook his head, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nah, I'm good. Just... tired, I guess."
Maxwell wanted to ask more, but Nathan quickly changed the subject, steering them back to familiar, lighthearted ground. They talked about their favorite games, the ones they'd someday play together in person, and Maxwell held on to each moment as if trying to tether Nathan to the present.
Thursday, 10:42 p.m.
Nathan's replies to Maxwell's texts had started slowing down. Where he used to respond almost immediately, Maxwell now found himself waiting hours between replies. Sometimes, the responses came with long pauses, or short, vague answers. Nathan seemed to be drifting, his presence more like an echo than the solid, comforting voice Maxwell had come to rely on.
But Maxwell didn't bring it up. He told himself Nathan was just busy, maybe tired. Or maybe he needed space, he reasoned, and who was he to push? Nathan would tell him if something was wrong, right? They'd promised to be there for each other, so Nathan would reach out when he needed to. Maxwell was sure of it.
That night, as they FaceTimed, Nathan's voice was softer than usual, barely above a whisper. There were long stretches of silence where he seemed to disappear into his own thoughts, his gaze unfocused, almost lost.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Maxwell finally asked, his own voice small, the unease creeping in despite his best efforts to stay positive.
Nathan looked at him, his expression guarded, distant. "I'm fine, Max," he replied, though there was a quiet weight in his voice that Maxwell couldn't ignore.
Maxwell wanted to push, to reach through the screen and pull him closer, but he held back, afraid of seeming clingy or intrusive. He forced a smile, trying to shake off the feeling gnawing at his chest. "Okay," he said softly, his voice almost hopeful. "Just... let me know if you need anything."
Nathan only nodded, his gaze already drifting elsewhere, his mind somewhere Maxwell couldn't follow.
Friday, 11:18 p.m.
By the end of the week, Maxwell's stomach was in knots. Nathan's replies had become shorter, more sporadic, and when they did talk, Nathan's laughter felt hollow, like it was slipping through his fingers. Maxwell began to worry, but he tried to reassure himself. They'd shared so much—Nathan had opened up to him, trusted him. That couldn't just disappear, could it?
Late that night, Maxwell sent a simple message: "Hey, just checking in. Hope you're okay."
The response came hours later, just as Maxwell was drifting to sleep.
Nathan: Yeah, just been busy. I'll talk to you soon.
A pit settled in Maxwell's stomach, and for the first time, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was something Nathan wasn't telling him. But he didn't press. Instead, he clung to the hope that whatever was pulling Nathan away was temporary, that he'd be back to his old self soon.
But deep down, a flicker of fear had begun to grow, and Maxwell couldn't quite shake it. He lay awake that night, staring at his phone, waiting for a message that didn't come.
