When the Simp Stops Trying

[ Busy. ] I stared at that single word on my screen for two whole seconds. Five minutes of the "typing…" bubble, just to hand out this oneword charity.

I held down the backspace key. I deleted the "Get some rest then" I had drafted, wiping out the very last drop of my pathetic desperation right along with it.

I used to brainwash myself into believing her untouchable coldness was the mysterious charm of an independent woman. The fog finally lifted.

This condescending impatience was calculated emotional abuse. Chapter 1 It was almost ten at night when I finally finished my overtime.

I sat at my cubicle, gripping my phone, and texted Gemma. [ You home yet? ] One minute passed. No reply. I sent another text. [ How was today?

Were the kids any better? ] Gemma taught English at an afterschool tutoring center, spending her days battling a horde of little monsters. I knew she was exhausted. I really did.

The screen stayed quiet. A tiny, gray "typing…" bubble flickered at the bottom of the chat, pulsing on and off like it was stringing me along on purpose.

Five minutes later, the phone buzzed. [ Busy. ] Just that one word. I stared at that word for two whole seconds. I held down the backspace key.

I erased the halftyped "Get some rest then," wiping out my last bit of warmth right along with it.

Instead of staring at the screen in my usual paranoid limbo, I flipped the phone to silent and slapped it facedown on the desk.

That sharp clack of plastic against wood sounded like a heavy, invisible chain snapping. I threw on my headset. The world finally shifted back into a shape I recognized.

The login screen popped up. My friends list immediately populated, a whole row of names flashing online. "Rhys, you in?

We need a jungler." It was a voice memo from Tucker, my college buddy turned coworker. He sounded as hyped as a guy who just got his annual bonus.

I held down the mic button. "Queue up. Invite me." The second we grouped up, Tucker started barking through the mic. "Look alive tonight, man.

Don't let them stomp through your jungle and roll straight to our base again." I let out a dry laugh and leaned back in my chair. "Relax. I'm in an okay mood today.

Even if we get stomped, I won't lose my shit." The second the words left my mouth, I caught how strange I sounded. Whenever I got pissed off in the past, my keyboard took the hit.

Now? I was so used to the cold shoulder that I didn't even have the energy to rage anymore. The match started.

I cleared my jungle camps, but my peripheral vision kept dragging toward the phone sitting next to my keyboard.

Back when I kept the screen awake, I'd still expect a notification banner to drop down. Eventually, I just set the screen timeout to ten seconds. I was done humiliating myself.

Before the next match queued up, the phone buzzed against the desk. Assuming it was a spam text, I quickly tapped the screen.

It was Gemma. [ Don't stay up too late. ] It was followed by a stiff, generic smiley face. Not the kind overloaded with red hearts, cute bunnies, or cherry blossoms.

Gemma's emojis always felt like she was just checking off a box to meet a polite social quota. I stared at the text.

The corner of my mouth twitched up in a hollow smirk. [ Sure. ] I shot back a single word, casually tossing in a sleepy yawning emoji. The thread went dead again.

The chat screen felt like I was dropping texts into the bottom of the ocean. Tucker yelled in my ear. "You zoning out? We got incoming!

River, river!" I adjusted my headset and steered my champion straight toward the river. The rapid click of my keys drowned in the heavy blasts of ingame sound effects.

Clear camps, camp the brush, gank the lane. Chapter 2 Two consecutive wins later, the clock on my monitor flashed twelvethirty. I closed the game client.

My hand lingered on the mouse. My phone screen sat dead black on the desk, cold as a slab of ice. I swiped the screen alive. The lock screen stared back, completely empty.

No 'Get to bed', no 'Text me when you get home', not a single missed call from her. A hollow laugh caught in my throat. I wasn't even sad anymore. Just numb.

A chilling, hyperaware kind of calm settled over me. I sank back into my gaming chair and ran the numbers in my head. For the past six months, I initiated every text thread.

I swallowed my pride and apologized first. I handed out the olive branch after every single argument.

Gemma operated on a strict, handsoff policy: if I talked, she listened; if I went silent, she never bothered to reach out. It felt like a sick game of chicken.

Whoever pulled away first got to breathe easier. I pushed out of my chair and powered down my rig.

The office floor was dead quiet, save for the hum of the cleaning crew's vacuum down the hall. Waiting by the elevators, my hand slipped into my pocket. Muscle memory took over.

I pulled out my phone, opened iMessage, and typed out a text to Gemma. [ Heading out. ] The second the blue bubble delivered, a wave of selfdisgust hit me.

I was practically filing a status report, begging for a scrap of validation. A 'Rough day' or even a bareminimum 'Okay'. The metal doors slid shut in front of me.

My phone buzzed against my palm. [ Got it. ] Two words. Not even a period. She guarded her keystrokes like they cost her money.

I stared at the screen, letting the sterile glow burn into my eyes for a few seconds before shoving the phone deep into my pocket. I left her on read.

The night air hit me the second I stepped out of the lobby. The biting chill against my face felt a hell of a lot more real than that empty chat thread.

I headed for the parking garage, flipping my car keys over my knuckles. A harsh realization cracked over me.

Somewhere along the line, I became the only one fighting for this relationship. My coop partner had switched herself to spectator mode a long time ago.

Any connection we had strictly followed her script. Saturday rolled around. For once, I didn't have to drag myself into the office. I finally rolled out of bed past ten.

The blackout curtains were still drawn shut, plunging the bedroom into heavy shadows. I reached blindly for the nightstand. My phone sat there, completely silent.

Not a single unread notification banner in sight. I swiped my thumb across the glass, unlocking the screen. The text thread with Gemma was still frozen on last night's 'Got it'.

Scrolling up, it was a solid wall of my blue texts. Her gray replies were as brief and clinical as multiplechoice test answers.

Staring at the backlog of texts, the reality of it slapped me in the face. We weren't a couple. We were a customer service hotline.

I submitted the tickets, and she handed out the automated, efficient resolutions. I stared at the ceiling for a solid minute before my thumb moved on its own. [ You off today?

Want to grab food? ] I hit send. The tiny 'Delivered' receipt popped up under the bubble. I tossed the phone onto the pillow and dragged myself into the bathroom.

I cranked the faucet, splashing freezing water over my face. Gripping the edges of the sink, I stared hard at my reflection in the mirror.

The dark bags under my eyes had faded a fraction. I had shaved off the stubble last night. I looked like a functioning human being.

Back in the early days of our relationship, I would spend Friday night planning out the entire weekend.

I'd map out driving routes, scroll through Yelp reviews, and obsess over whether Gemma would like the vibe. Now?

I couldn't even step out my own front door without waiting for her stamp of approval. I tossed my toothbrush back into the cup and walked out.

The phone screen was glowing against the sheets. Chapter 3 My chest tightened a fraction. I tapped the screen. [ Teaching this afternoon.

Parentteacher conferences tonight. ] A little helpless emoji followed. Muscle memory took over. My thumbs flew across the keyboard. [ I can pick you up.

Grab latenight takeout after you're done? ] The cursor blinked at me. I held down the backspace key until the text box was dead empty.

In the end, I sent back a single phrase. [ Hang in there. ] This time, she didn't even bother with a 'Got it'. The chat thread flatlined.

The only sound left in the living room was the low hum of the refrigerator compressor, amplifying the hollow ache gnawing at my ribs.

I chucked the phone onto the couch, booted up my PC, and launched the same game from last night. The login screen flashed, and a sudden, sharp clarity hit me.

An ugly truth surfaced: I wasn't playing to escape. I was logging in because, at the very least, my teammates actually needed me.

The second I showed online, Tucker shot over a voice channel invite. "Rhys, awake before noon? Hell freezing over?" I checked the clock on my monitor.

Eleventhirty. "Figured I had to wake up early to carry an old man like you through ranked." I sounded completely normal. I could even fake the banter.

Tucker clicked his tongue over the mic. "You were completely off your game last night.

Gemma freezing you out again?" My index finger froze on the mouse button. "No." I paused, then forced out the excuse. "She's just busy." "She's busy every damn day." Tucker didn't pull his punches. "You ever notice that if you don't text her first, you two could go a whole week without speaking a single word?" I went quiet for a few seconds.

The matchmaking progress bar crawled across the screen. "It's just a phase." I threw out a pathetic excuse to save face.

Tucker let out a harsh laugh. "Man, that's called playing singleplayer." The aggressive clatter of his mechanical keyboard echoed through the headset, drumming a heavy beat against my selfdelusion.

I kept my mouth shut. The match popped. We loaded in. During the third match, a random ID shot me a friend request. [ Nice jungle plays.

Wanna duo queue? ] The profile picture was a girl in her early twenties, flashing a bright, easy smile. I didn't accept it right away.

Tucker, on the other hand, lost his mind. "My guy, you got an egirl knocking on your door." I rolled my eyes at the monitor. "We're adults.

Don't use the word 'egirl'." "She's just throwing you a compliment.

What are you sweating for, Coach Rhys?" Tucker mocked. "Does your Ice Queen girlfriend ever compliment you?" That was a straight shot to the gut.

I flipped through the mental files of our last few dates.

Gemma would drop a "Not bad," a "Sure," or a "That works." But they always sounded like a teacher grading a midterm, never like a girlfriend who actually gave a shit about me.

I didn't answer Tucker. I silently clicked accept on the friend request, then immediately moved her ID to a restricted list. Not a full block, just a safety lock on myself.

I knew exactly what I was doing. When you're starving in a deadend relationship, it's way too easy to get hooked on the smallest crumb of warmth.

I wasn't going to let myself look that pathetic. Chapter 4 At two in the afternoon, I closed the game. My eyes burned, and my empty stomach twisted in a sharp cramp.

There was a cup of instant ramen left in the kitchen from last night.

Right as I ripped the foil off, my phone screen lit up. [ The parents just left. ] It was from Gemma. [ Probably going to be late getting home tonight. ] I stared at those two messages.

A completely outofplace thought hooked into my brain: When she said "home," did she mean the house she shared with her mom, or the relationship we were supposed to be building?

I shoved the cold, pathetic bowl of ramen aside. The sharp cramp in my gut ripped away the last of my brain fog.

I grabbed my phone, finally typing without a single drop of expectation. [ FaceTime tonight?

If you're staying in, I can wrap things up early on my end. ] Minutes dragged by with zero response. The noodles turned into a congealed lump on my fork.

The cheap sodium burned the back of my throat. I chewed mechanically. The screen finally flashed. [ We'll see. I'll probably be too exhausted. ] I stared at the text.

Those words were the ultimate getoutofjailfree card. "We'll see." "I'll probably be exhausted." "Maybe later." "Don't overthink it." In this relationship, those phrases were her firewall.

The second she deployed them, they blocked out any emotion she didn't feel like dealing with. I slammed the phone facedown on the counter. I didn't rush to reply.

This time, I wanted to run a test. I wanted to see what would happen if I stopped chasing, stopped begging, stopped carrying the entire weight of us.

Would she even notice something was wrong? The day burned out. At ten that night, I lay flat on my mattress, thumb swiping aimlessly across the glass.

The chat thread was still deadlocked on her "We'll see." Gemma didn't send a "Why haven't you texted me?" She didn't send a "What did you do today?" Not a single question.

A bitter laugh rattled in my chest. I opened her contact profile. Gemma.

The string of red heart emojis next to her name had been there for over a year, slapped on back when we first made it official. I tapped the cursor at the end of the line.

I hit backspace. The hearts vanished. The illusion fractured. I wasn't suddenly turning cold. I was just dragging myself back to a normal baseline.

The only twisted part of this whole thing was how pathetic I used to be, taking all her impatience and her "busy" excuses as some warped version of love.

For the first time, I admitted the truth. I was exhausted too. Monday morning hit. When my alarm went off, my lock screen was completely bare. Zero notifications.

I stared at the ceiling for a solid ten seconds. I made a heavy call. I wasn't going to text Gemma today. It wasn't out of spite. It was a clinical experiment.

I needed to know if I stopped dropping the morning texts and the checkins, would this relationship just time out like an AFK player in a lobby?

Would the system just flash 'Connection Lost'? I threw on my clothes, headed downstairs, and grabbed a black coffee. The subway was packed tight.

Pressed against the carriage doors, muscle memory kicked in. I pulled out my phone and tapped her thread. The last message was still sitting there. [ We'll see.

I'll probably be too exhausted. ] The words 'Me too' echoed in my head a dozen times, but my thumbs stayed still. I didn't type a single letter. I hit the office.

Morning standups, code reviews, feature debates—a mountain of corporate garbage buried me. At twelvethirty, I flipped the mute switch on my phone off, a rare move.

It sat completely silent next to my keyboard. Chapter 5 One o'clock. Onethirty. Two o'clock. I thought I could bury myself in the code. I thought I could tune it all out.

But every few minutes, my eyes would involuntarily flick back to the dead screen. At twofifteen, the phone buzzed against the desk. I grabbed it instantly. It wasn't a text.

Just a system update notification. A bitter smile cracked my face. I tossed the phone back onto the desk and booked one of the empty conference rooms for a nap.

I kicked back the recliner and closed my eyes. Right before I drifted off, a brutal truth slammed into me: I was swamped with work, way more than she was.

But for the entire span of our relationship, I was the one acting like a 24/7 customer service rep on standby.

Just past three, the frontend guy dragged me into an API integration mess. I looked up from a massive wall of error logs. The phone screen was dark.

When I finally picked it up, there was an unread message waiting. I actually did a doubletake. [ Why are you so quiet today? ] Sender: Gemma. Timestamp: ten minutes ago.

I stared at that sentence for a long time. It felt like a direct hit, but it wasn't relief. It was sheer shock.

A startling realization of, 'Oh, you actually do care.' I typed back three words: [ I'm at work. ] Almost instantly, the 'typing…' bubble popped up on her end. [ You usually talk even when you're at work. ] It looked like a casual observation, but in Gemma's dictionary of absolute emotional detachment, this was practically a screaming accusation.

I thought about it for a few seconds.

My thumbs moved over the glass. [ I figured I should give you more space. ] [ It felt like I was the only one ever reaching out. ] The cursor blinked twice.

I added one last line. [ I get tired too. ] This time, I didn't hit backspace. I hit send. Radio silence. Thirty whole minutes of it