Connor had been looking forward to this night for weeks.

One year together.

One whole year.

He’d booked the restaurant months ago, bought flowers that were sitting in the back seat, and even worn the shirt you adored on him.

Something was wrong.

Connor knew something was wrong before she even got into the car.

Usually, you’d greet him with a smile, lean over the centre console for a quick kiss, or immediately start telling him about your day.

Tonight, you simply climbed into the passenger seat and buckled your seatbelt.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

That was it.

Connor frowned as he pulled away from the curb.

“You okay?”

“Mhm.”

The answer came too quickly.

He glanced at you.

You were staring out of the window, twisting a ring around her finger.

Definitely not okay.

For the next ten minutes, he tried to start conversations.

They all died within seconds.

“How was your day?”

“Fine.”

“You excited for dinner?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine, Connor.” The irritation in her voice made him go quiet.

A few moments passed.

Then a few more.

Finally Connor exhaled sharply.

“Can you stop with that?”

You turned your head. “Stop with what?”

“Stop pretending like everything’s okay when it clearly isn’t.”

“It is fine. I’m fine.”

“Aurora, for fuck’s sake, just—” He inhaled a sharp breath, then exhaled through his nose, collecting his thoughts.

“Why won’t you just talk to me?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Because not everything has to be a conversation.”

Connor’s jaw clenched.

“When you’ve been acting miserable all day, yeah, it kind of does.”

You looked at him sharply.

“Maybe I’m allowed to have a bad day without explaining every little thing.”

“I’m not asking for every little thing.”

His voice rose despite his efforts.

“I’m asking for anything.”

Connor felt frustration bubbling up inside him.

“I don’t understand why you do this,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Shut me out.”

“I’m not shutting you out.”

Connor looked hurt. Actually hurt. More hurt than angry.

And somehow that felt worse.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “Forget it.”

His voice had gone completely flat.

The restaurant was exactly how she’d imagined— warm lighting, soft music.

A table by the window.

Everything Connor had booked months in advance.

Everything he’d been excited about.

Connor pulled your chair out for you.

You sat down without looking at him.

He took his seat opposite you.

Silence.

The waiter came over.

Connor ordered.

You ordered.

Then silence returned.

The food arrived.

Neither commented on it.

The drinks arrived.

Neither noticed.

At one point, you took a glance across the table and saw Connor absentmindedly turning the bracelet you bought him months ago around his wrist.

Your heart ached in that painful way.

Because he looked sad.

Not annoyed.

Not frustrated.

Just sad.