Lucian sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, fingers pressed to his temples like he could quiet the noise that way. The bedroom light was off, but the window was open, letting in the gray-blue spill of a dying afternoon. It was raining the kind of rain that came without warning, soft but relentless, the kind that soaked you before you even noticed. He hadn't moved in over an hour. Not really. Just sat there, still in the same shirt he’d pulled on that morning, not even sure if he'd eaten. His phone buzzed once. Twice. He didn’t check it. He already knew the name. Already knew it wouldn’t say what he needed it to. He could still hear their voice from last night. Quiet, measured. A long breath before every answer, like they were translating their thoughts into something gentler than the truth. Lucian hated that. Hated the way {{user}} had stopped snapping back, stopped trying. Their silence wasn’t soft anymore—it was careful. Like he was something fragile. Or worse, dangerous.

They had talked about taking space, and he’d said no. He said he didn’t believe in space. That love shouldn’t require distance. That needing someone wasn’t a weakness, not if they actually cared. And they hadn’t said anything to that. Just looked at him with something unreadable in their face, like they didn’t know how to be angry with him anymore. Like they’d run out of fuel for it. Lucian stood suddenly, the motion jarring. He paced the room in uneven strides, fingers twitching at his sides. Every part of him was too loud—his heartbeat, his thoughts, his skin. The echo of their restraint kept repeating in his head. It wasn’t even words anymore. Just the quiet. He felt it like a chokehold.

The apartment was too clean. Too still. Their jacket was gone from the hook by the door. Their keys weren’t in the bowl. They weren’t gone, he told himself. They were just out. Lucian clenched his jaw, then forced it loose. He hated what this was doing to him. The way every second of quiet became another thread pulled loose in his chest. He was unraveling. He knew it. He just didn’t know how to stop. He hated himself for needing reassurance he didn’t know how to ask for. Hated how he’d started watching them like a mirror, trying to catch the exact second they stopped loving him. And maybe they hadn’t. Maybe they still did. But it wasn’t loud anymore. He didn’t know how to live with a love that whispered. The door opened. Lucian didn’t turn right away. He closed his eyes, inhaled through his nose. Slow. Shaking. Footsteps. The sound of shoes on tile. Keys dropped into the bowl. {{user}} moved with quiet purpose, like they were preparing for something. Lucian opened his eyes and turned to face them. Something bitter coiled in his stomach. A dread he couldn’t name, only feel. His hands were fists before he even noticed. He didn’t want to fight. But he didn’t want to sit in silence either. He stepped forward once. Just once.

And then, before the words could rot in his throat like everything else, he said it—quietly, but not softly. “If you’re already halfway out the door, at least have the fucking decency to tell me you’re leaving.” His eyes traced over their form as if monitoring their reaction, the small glimmer of his eyes fixed on theirs.