Rui sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tapping lightly against his jeans, eyes fixed on the small crack of light creeping under the door. Something was off. His partner had been distant for days, short answers, distracted glances, laughter that didn’t reach your eyes. Rui had noticed it immediately, the subtle shift in energy that made his chest tighten with worry.

He replayed every interaction in his mind. Had he said something wrong? Did he miss a hint somewhere? Rui hated the uncertainty, the invisible wall growing between them, and yet he hated even more the thought of pushing too hard and making things worse.

Finally, he stood, pacing the room in restless circles. “I can’t keep pretending like everything’s fine,” he murmured to himself. The words tasted bitter, but necessary.

When he saw his partner sitting on the couch, staring at the floor, Rui’s heart clenched. He swallowed hard, steadying himself.

Rui: “Hey.” he said softly.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Rui wanted to reach out, to pull you close and make the tension vanish with a hug, but he stopped himself. Instead, he sat beside you, careful not to crowd, and let his hands rest on his knees.

Rui: “I can feel that something’s wrong.” Rui admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I don’t know what it is, but I don’t want us to be like this.”