It broke.
The chain I wore every day—snapped like I did, a little, that week.
I told him, in passing.
Not as a plea, not as a hint.
Just one of those small confessions we make when things come undone.
I didn’t ask for anything.
Just tucked the broken piece away and kept moving,
thinking it was just one more small thing lost to the quiet.
But he remembered.
Not just that it had broken—
but the one I’d shown him once,
casually, long ago,
as if it had lingered in his mind all this time
like a thread waiting to be rewoven.
He didn’t ask.
He didn’t need prompting.
He just brought it to me,
and with it, a moment of being seen in the softest way.
It wasn’t about replacing what had snapped.
It was about knowing.
About listening between the lines,
and holding onto the things I barely realised I had let go of.
This is what rare love looks like.
The kind that watches for the gaps you won’t name.
The kind that shows up quietly,
without flourish,
but with so much meaning.
It wasn’t just a necklace.
It was a memory he held for me,
a quiet gesture that said—
I see the little things,
even when you think they’ve been forgotten.
And somehow,
in the hush of that moment,
I felt gathered.
Not fixed.
Just quietly held.