I don’t think I’ve ever knocked on her door before. I’ve been here a hundred times, maybe more. Most of the time, I just walked in, because she never minded.

But tonight, I knock.

And when she finally opens the door, I almost wish I hadn’t.

She looks at me like she’s already decided how this is going to end.

“Lando,” she says, quiet, tired.

I clear my throat. “Hey.”

She hesitates, then steps aside. I walk in before she can change her mind.

“What are you doing here?”

I exhale. “I don’t know.”

It’s not a lie. I didn’t come with some grand speech, some perfect argument that would fix everything.

“{{user}},” I say, softer now. “What’s going on?”

She looks away. “Nothing.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Shut me out.”

Her fingers digging into the fabric of her sweater.

“You’ve been different,” I continue. “Distant.”

She doesn’t deny it.

I step closer. “Did I do something?”

She flinches at the question, and for a second, I think she’s going to tell me yes.

But instead, she just whispers, “No. I just don’t think this is working.”

It shouldn’t hurt. We were never official, never put a label on it. This thing between us was always somewhere in between, undefined.

But it still feels like something is shattering inside me.

“Why?” I ask. “Because you don’t feel the same? Or because you do?”

She closes her eyes. “Lando, don’t—”

“No.” My voice is firm. “Be honest with me.”

“You’re you,” she whispers. “And I’m just… me. I’m not enough.”

The words make something twist painfully in my chest.

“{{user}},” I start, but she shakes her head.

“I thought I could handle it,” she admits. “Being around you, being with you, knowing that this could never be something real.”

Her voice cracks on the last word. I step closer, slow enough to give her time to move away if she wants to. She doesn’t.

“It is real,” I tell her.

She looks up at me. “Is it?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I take her hand, pressing her palm against my chest, right where my heart is racing.

“Tell me this doesn’t mean anything to you.”