From Best Friend To Fiancé (Savannah and Roman) novel Chapter 229

**Chapter 135: New Ways To Echo**

Savannah

Four days have slipped away since that fateful argument, and I feel as if I’m an empty shell, a mere echo of who I once was. It’s as though something vital within me has been siphoned off, leaving behind a void that refuses to be filled. The silence that envelops this house has taken on a tangible form; it lingers in the corners, seeps through the floorboards, and wraps itself around me like a suffocating shroud whenever I find myself alone. And alone I am, more often than not.

Roman has not uttered a single word to me since our fight. I, too, have chosen silence as my refuge, a strange sort of mutual agreement that has transformed us into polite strangers sharing the same kitchen and the same bed, yet feeling worlds apart.

He leaves before the first light of dawn breaks, and returns long after the stars have faded into the morning sky. Some nights, I hear the garage door creak open and then shut again mere moments later—he doesn’t even step foot inside the house. Once, he didn’t come home at all. I later learned he had spent the night at his office. I didn’t ask him why; deep down, I already knew the answer.

He’s avoiding me. The truth is as clear as the daylight streaming through the windows. And perhaps I deserve this treatment. Perhaps I pushed him too far this time, crossed a line I shouldn’t have.

For so long, he has been the one to mend our rifts first. The one who swallows his pride, who reaches out and says, “Let’s not fight anymore.” He would find me, pull me close, and press his lips gently against my forehead, even when I was still simmering with anger. But now, there’s only silence. No soft footsteps outside the bedroom door, no whispered apologies in the dark. Just an expanse of cold, deliberate distance that feels insurmountable.

We have never gone this long without speaking. In the five years I’ve known him, this is the longest stretch of silence we’ve endured, and it’s suffocating me, though I would never voice that out loud.

He doesn’t even touch the meals I prepare anymore. On the first night, he simply pushed his plate aside, signaling that he wasn’t hungry. The second night, he didn’t come home at all. By the third night, I surrendered to the emptiness and stopped cooking altogether. What’s the point of setting a table when the chair across from me remains unoccupied, a stark reminder of the chasm that has formed between us?

At times, I find myself pondering what he thinks of me now. Perhaps he fears I’ll poison his food out of spite. Maybe he believes I am that kind of woman. If only he understood that an orange jumpsuit wouldn’t even make it into my top hundred favorite outfits to wear.

The thought briefly sparked a laugh, but it extinguished as quickly as it came. I miss him so profoundly that it borders on pathetic. At first, I tried to convince myself that I was merely feeling the pangs of physical desire. But that excuse crumbled under the weight of reality. I miss the man I fell in love with—the sound of his voice greeting me in the morning, the warmth of his body beside mine at night, the little texts he would send during the day just to check on me, to see if I had eaten or if I was alright. Now, there’s nothing but silence.

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