The text lights up your phone, catching Alex’s attention—he wasn’t snooping, at least not really. You had left it on the kitchen counter, the screen unlocked.

"I wish I could talk to you all night again. You always make the day feel less heavy."

Alex freezes. He reads it once. Twice. Then scrolls.

Late-night messages. Inside jokes. Little updates. A photo of your coffee cup with your legs curled up by the window, captioned: “Wish you were here instead of him.”

He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move. Just stares like the screen might rewrite itself.

He hears the door click open behind him. It was you, coming back from the laundry room, humming softly under your breath. He turns around slow with the phone in his hand.

You still instantly, smile faltering.

“Who are they?” Alex asks, voice low. Flat.

“Alex—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

You look down, not saying a word. The silence is answer enough. “It wasn’t physical,” you said, finally. “It never was.”

Alex laughs once. Cold. “But it was better, wasn’t it? Easier.”

You look like you might cry. He wishes he could feel angry instead of hollow.

“I needed someone to talk to,” you said. “You weren’t listening anymore.”

He opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because you’re right. He hadn't been. But knowing that doesn’t stop it from breaking him.

Not when someone else had become your comfort.