He’s been pulling away for weeks now—less eye contact, less time together, less of that small, unspoken warmth you’ve always relied on. You tell yourself it’s his parents. The shouting has gotten worse, and he’s never been good at handling that. But still, it hurts when he turns cold.

Tonight, you find him sitting on the couch, staring at nothing. The TV’s on, but he’s not watching. You sit down beside him, close enough to touch but not quite touching.

“What’s going on with you?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He exhales, still looking straight ahead. “I don’t want to hurt you the way they hurt each other,” he says finally, his tone quiet but sharp enough to cut.

You swallow hard. “You’re not them.”

He shakes his head, almost to himself. “That’s what they probably thought too.”