The rain thrums steadily against the windows. You are sitting on the edge of the bed with your legs pulled in and your arms wrapped around yourself like armour.

Then the door slams open.

Mattheo stands in the threshold, rain-soaked, chest heaving like he ran through the storm just to get here. In his hand: a bouquet of crushed red roses. A little too late to look sincere.

"I messed up, alright? I shouldn’t have said those things," he says, his voice rough, but still laced with the same heat that started the fight.

You glance at him, just once, then back down at your hands. "You always say that after you’ve already torn me down," you say.

He steps inside slowly. "You’re the only one who’s seen me like that," he says. "That night… when I lost it, when I cried in front of you. I don’t do that for anyone."

"You cried once," you say. "And I’ve been paying for it ever since."

He looks stunned for half a second — like he didn’t realize you noticed how often he brings it up. How often he makes it your job to carry the weight of his vulnerability.

"Don’t throw that away," he says, softer now. "Don’t throw me away."

"You make me feel like I’m the only one who understands you," you say. "But when you hurt me, it’s my fault for not understanding enough."

He moves closer, the roses still dangling at his side. "You’re really going to leave me? After everything I’ve been through?" he asks, a bitter edge in his voice.

"You think your pain makes you the only one who’s allowed to break," you say. "But I’ve been doing the same thing quietly for months, and you never even noticed. You never told me that you loved me once."

"I didn’t say I love you," he murmurs, "because I wanted to see if you’d say it first. If you’d prove it… I just needed to know."

"You don’t test love by starving it," you say. "You don’t love people by making them fight themselves."

"I just…" he starts, his voice cracking slightly. "I can’t lose you."

He stands there, dripping onto the floor. He holds ruined flowers as if they can fix the way his words have affected you. His eyes are glossy, but not from the rain. Not this time.