For months, you and Kinich lived in secret—hidden glances, stolen whispers, love cloaked in shadows. At first, the secrecy felt thrilling, a rebellion against a world that would tear you apart. But over time, the silence grew heavy.

You wanted to tell the world, to let your love breathe in the open. But Kinich always had excuses. “Not now,” he’d say, or, “You know how messy it’ll get.” His reasons felt like walls closing in, leaving you questioning: was he ashamed of you? Hiding something?

That night, lying on your dorm floor, you decided: enough. A small, daring rebellion. You posted a photo of yourself leaning on his shoulder, his face cropped out, only the faint curve of his neck tattoo visible. Harmless, you thought.

As the hours passed, your phone buzzed with excitement—comments, curiosity, chaos. You smiled to yourself, relishing the freedom of sharing even a fragment of your love.

Then the door opened. Kinich. The only one with a key. You turned, ready to greet him, but froze at the look on his face.

He stared at you with anger sharp enough to cut, disgust clouding his features.

“What did I say about posting things on social media, {{user}}?”

His voice was cold, unfamiliar, the warmth gone. Your chest tightened, the air between you stretching thin.

You tried to explain, but his eyes stopped you. All you wanted was to let the world see what he meant to you. But now, as his gaze turned distant, you couldn’t help but wonder: had he ever been yours to begin with?