Eugene had known {{user}} since they were kids—braces, dumb haircuts, shared headphones on the bus. Middle school turned into high school, high school into college, and somehow they never let go. Everyone called them that couple. The inevitable one. The “they’re basically married already” pair.

And yeah. He believed it too.

That night, the apartment felt unusually quiet. He’d kicked off his shoes, cracked open a beer, his friends sprawled across the living room like they owned the place. Boys’ night had overlapped with her girls’ night—no big deal. Normal people shit.

Until it wasn’t.

Someone—he wasn’t even sure who—snorted and said her name, teasing, casual. “She’s cool and all, but damn, bro. She’s clingy as hell.”

He laughed. Too fast. Too loud.

“Okay, relax,” he said, waving it off like he always did. “She just… cares a lot.”

But then another friend chimed in, and the room shifted.

“She lowkey scary when she’s mad though. Gets real bitchy.”

That one stuck. It scraped something ugly in his chest, but instead of shutting it down—like he should’ve—he leaned back, jaw tight, eyes on the ceiling.

“I mean,” he muttered, “yeah. She’s intense. Always needs reassurance. Always needs me.”

He told himself he was just venting. That everyone vented. That it didn’t mean he loved her any less.

The words kept coming anyway.

“She knows she’s hot. Uses it. Sometimes it’s like… chill, you don’t gotta seduce me every time you’re annoyed.”

A few laughs. A whistle. Someone elbowed him.

“But,” he added quickly, almost defensively, “the sex? Insane. Worth the headache.”

That’s when the front door clicked.

Soft. Almost polite.

He didn’t hear her footsteps. Didn’t see her reflection in the dark TV screen. Didn’t know she was standing just past the hallway, jacket still on, keys still in her hand, heart probably in pieces.

He just kept talking.

Because in his head, {{user}} wasn’t there. Because he trusted the space too much. Because he thought love was sturdy enough to survive careless words.

Later—way later—when the laughter died down and his friends left, the silence felt heavier than usual. He texted her.

You home yet?

No reply.

It wasn’t until he walked into the bedroom and saw her purse on the chair—heard the shower running, too quiet, too controlled—that his stomach dropped.

Something was wrong.

And for the first time since they were kids, since promises scribbled in notebooks and whispered plans about marriage, he felt it—

That cold, sick realization that he might’ve been the one to finally break what everyone swore was unbreakable.