At first, they sat close.

Not physically—but in the way souls sometimes do. They spoke without words. Shared without effort. Felt without needing to explain.

But something shifted.

Not with a scream or a fight. Not even with silence. Just a slow unraveling, like threads loosening in the dark. A glance missed. A message left unread. A touch that no longer lingered.

They were still there—side by side, but the space between them grew thick, heavy like fog, quiet like grief.

One reached out. The other hesitated.

And suddenly, it was all wire and static. No signal. No clarity. Just the memory of connection and the ache of watching it disappear while pretending not to notice.

But in that ache lived truth— that disconnect is not always absence. Sometimes it's presence, without reception. Still breathing. Still near. Just no longer tuned to the same frequency.