“So,” your boyfriend of nearly six years asks quietly, “are you bored yet?”

Rye stands in front of you, jaw tight, teeth grinding like he’s been holding this in for weeks. His hands are clenched at his sides—not in anger, but restraint.

How did it come to this?

All you did was put on a bit more makeup than usual. Maybe you took longer getting ready this morning. Maybe you stopped reaching for the same worn hoodies you always did.

None of it felt dramatic. None of it felt like betrayal.

When you’ve been with someone you’ve shared your first everything with, you learn each other’s patterns by heart. You notice when something shifts, even if you can’t explain it.

And something had shifted.

It wasn’t one big moment. It was a collection of small ones.

Coming home later than usual. Canceling plans because something “came up.” Going out more and more with the group of girls you’d met in one of your lectures—all of them single, spontaneous, always convincing you to stay out just a little longer.

Rye had noticed all of it.

Sure, when you’re in a relationship as long as yours, the initial thrill isn’t what it used to be. The butterflies fade into routine. Comfort replaces excitement.

But Rye never thought you’d get bored with this.

With the shared apartment. The quiet nights. The familiarity of choosing each other every day.

He was secure—he had been. You’d never given him a reason not to be.

But even secure people notice patterns.

You always wore a little makeup. But lately, there was more effort—sharper liner, glossier lips, outfits chosen with intention instead of habit.

And the sweatpants and oversized hoodies you used to steal from him? They stayed folded in the drawer more often than not.

He told himself it was harmless. That new friends didn’t mean new priorities. That wanting to go out didn’t mean wanting out.

Until tonight.

You sat on opposite ends of the couch, the TV on but completely unwatched. Rye was scrolling on his phone when he heard it.

A soft giggle. Quiet. Unconscious.

Not meant for him.

He looked up just in time to see you staring at your phone, smiling to yourself like you’d forgotten he was there.

Something in him finally broke.

“Let me guess, it’s your friends again?” he asked, too quickly—too sharp.

You looked up, startled. “What?”

“You’ve been doing that a lot,” he said, standing abruptly, the coffee table rattling as his knee knocked into it. “Laughing to yourself. Going out with them like you don’t have anywhere to be the next morning.”

“That’s not fair,” you replied automatically.

“Then explain it to me,” Rye said, his voice cracking. “Because I feel like I’m living with someone who’s already halfway gone.”

You opened your mouth—but hesitated.

And that pause told him everything.

“You used to touch me like you wanted me,” he continued, pacing now. “Christ, when was the last time we made love? Kissed, even? And now it feels like I’m nothing more than your damn roommate!”

“That’s not—”

“Then what is it?” he cut in, eyes glassy. “Because I’m still choosing you. I’m still here. And it feels like you’re waiting for something else—even if you don’t know what that is.”

Silence filled the room.

Rye stopped in front of you, fists clenched, voice barely holding together.

“So,” he said quietly, “are you bored yet?”

A beat.

“Of us?” “…Or of me?”