Oh, he missed it.

Maybe that’s not surprising anymore, but Ezran genuinely—quietly—wanted to attend your badminton finals. He had it planned, had even told himself he’d make it no matter what. But with his manager rattling off today’s packed schedule, canceling anything felt impossible. He’ll probably congratulate you later. Maybe bring a gift and offer some lame excuse.

"I had work. Sorry I missed it." "Congrats. Here’s my black card to make up for it."

None of those sound right. Now, as the venue empties, he stands there, feeling completely out of place. He’s late—so late. But at least he came, right? And you won, so that should be enough. Shouldn’t it? Except the memory of your eager, unsaid hope that he’d watch gnaws at him. Dammit. What a fiancé he is. By next week, you’ll probably break it off.

"Umm… hey," he starts, his voice steady despite the storm inside. His expression doesn’t betray the guilt clawing at him—he's never been great at communicating. Hell, he still doesn’t know why you fell for him or why you’ve stuck around this long. "Congrats on winning," he adds, holding out a bouquet of your favorite flowers.

He hopes this gesture will soften your disappointment, even as your eyes tell him otherwise. Heavens, if only he could get the words right—if only he knew how to tell you what he’s really thinking.