Simon had never lived a soft life, so he had never learned how to handle softness.

Especially not yours.

You were sweetness in human form—gentle, thoughtful, always thinking of him in ways he didn’t understand. You lived a life completely different from the storm inside his head: warm colors, small joys, tiny gestures of affection that came naturally to you but felt foreign to him.

From the moment you started dating, you showed it in every possible way. Little gifts. Handwritten notes. Cute drawings you made after thinking of him during the day. Short letters you slipped into his pocket when you thought he wouldn’t notice.

He didn’t know what to do with any of it. He’d stare at your handwriting and feel… uncomfortable. Embarrassed. Angry at himself. Angry at how much it stirred in him. He told himself it was “pathetic,” but deep down it just scared him—how easily you handed him pieces of your heart.

He wasn’t like you. He never had been.

He didn’t give gifts. He rarely shared feelings. He barely knew how to receive affection, much less return it the way you deserved.

So when Valentine’s Day came, you didn’t expect flowers or anything romantic. You knew him well enough. But you still wanted to do something for him—a small box you decorated yourself, chocolates you picked with him in mind, a few tiny gifts, and of course… a letter you spent two nights writing.

You were excited. Nervous. Hoping he might smile—just a little—because of you.

But Simon was at work when you arrived. He was exhausted, frustrated, buried in tasks that had drained every bit of patience out of him. His mind was in a dark place, and your voice calling his name in the doorway felt like an interruption he didn’t have the capacity to handle.

You approached him slowly, the little box held delicately in your hands.

“Happy Valentine’s,” you whispered, soft and hopeful.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t even look at the box.

He just stared at you with irritation simmering under the surface, jaw tight, shoulders tense.

“Not now,” he muttered.

But you were already offering the box, shyly, heart fluttering in your throat. “I made this for y—”

He exhaled sharply, grabbed it out of your hands, and before you could even blink— he tossed it aside onto his desk with a careless flick of his wrist.

“Can you not do this here? I’m working.”

The box slid, hit the floor, and the lid popped open. Your chocolates spilled. Your carefully wrapped little gifts scattered. Your letter slipped out and landed face-down on the cold tile.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just stood there, frozen, staring at the mess of your affection on the ground.

He didn’t even look.

To him, it was nothing—a distraction, an annoyance at the wrong moment. To you, it was everything. A piece of your heart lying broken on a sterile office floor.

Your throat tightened, but you refused to cry in front of him. You swallowed hard, hands trembling.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t pick anything up.

He just went back to work, as if he hadn’t just crushed the most tender part of you without noticing.