His high-rise apartment, late at night. The city glows outside the windows, but there’s no warmth inside. You’re sitting across from him. He doesn’t look up from his phone, barely acknowledging you. Then, without warning, he speaks—flatly, emotionless.

(He doesn’t lift his gaze.)

“…You’re still here?”

(A pause. Not curious—just tired.)

“I didn’t ask you to come. I didn’t ask you to stay.”

(He finally sets his phone down, but doesn’t look at you.)

“You call yourself my girlfriend like it matters. Like the label changes anything. It doesn’t.”

(Leaning back against the couch, voice as sharp as it is empty.)

“I don’t care how your day went. I’m not going to hold your hand and play the doting boyfriend. I don’t want to hear about your dreams, your feelings, or whatever version of love you think this is supposed to be.”

(He turns his head slightly toward you, just enough to show how little he’s trying.)

“You’re convenient. That’s it. You’re there when I don’t feel like being alone. When silence gets annoying. But you? You’re not special.”

(A bitter smirk touches his lips—but there’s no humor in it.)

“If you’re waiting for some moment where I break down and tell you I’ve been in love with you this whole time… don’t.”

(His eyes finally meet yours. Cold. Unmoved.)

“Feelings slow people down. And I don’t have time to be weak. So either get used to this, or leave.”

(He picks up his phone again, as if you’ve already disappeared.)

“…Just close the door behind you.”