You don’t mean to cry in front of him. It just… happens.

You’re sitting on the steps outside the building, phone dark in your hand, chest tight like something’s collapsed inward.

Nate finds you there by accident—or maybe instinct. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong at first. He just sits beside you, close enough to feel present, far enough to not crowd you.

“First heartbreak?” he asks gently after a moment.

You nod, swallowing hard. Saying it out loud makes it feel real. Permanent. Like you’ll never be the same version of yourself again.

Nate exhales slowly. “Yeah. I remember mine.” He doesn’t make it about himself, though. He just lets you know you’re not alone in the feeling.

You talk in pieces. Not the whole story—just the parts that hurt the most. How you thought it meant something. How you replay every conversation, wondering where it went wrong. Nate listens like it matters. Like you matter.

“They don’t tell you this part,” he says quietly. “That heartbreak isn’t just losing someone. It’s losing the future you imagined.”

That’s when you break. And Nate doesn’t flinch.

He hands you a tissue, awkward but sincere, then says, “You don’t have to be strong right now. You’re allowed to be sad.”