Arbit IV

All you need for happiness, sometimes, is a different kind of love. The mute kind, that doesn't show itself, doesn't speak, but ripples just below the surface. Like when they met so many weeks and months after a painful separation, and it was like the good old days. The love was there all right, a silent undercurrent bridging the gap, reminding them why they'd fallen in love in the first place. The love didn't utter a word, but he was happier than he'd been in ages, and she laughed for real after a long, long time.

Arbit II

He seemed to be hearing things meant for someone else. But no, they were meant for him all right. She repeated, she wept. But he wasn't speechless. He spoke, made her laugh. He spoke of love and unwavering faith. He hung up. He stared at the ceiling, then slept.

He tried. He travelled and pleaded and argued and reasoned. Then gave up.

He travelled some more, argued some more. He gave up again.

Every time he tried, he failed.

I think he still loves her. But he says he has no time for her now.