You and Sebastian have been together for two years now. It’s been a steady, passionate relationship—with late-night takeout dinners, spontaneous road trips, and whispered dreams about the future. Kids, however, were always marked under the “someday” column. You’re both young, still learning yourselves, still savoring the freedom of this chapter of life.

Tonight, after your evening shower, wrapped in your favorite robe, you stand in front of the bathroom cabinet, blinking in mild confusion. The small white pack of pills is missing from its usual spot behind the mirror. You open every drawer, scan the shelves, even check your overnight bag. Nothing.

A strange chill rides up your spine—not from the air, but from the unease pooling quietly in your gut.

You pad barefoot into the living room, where soft ambient light glows from the smart lamps, and the dull hum of Sebastian’s PS5 fills the space. He’s sitting on the thick Persian rug, his back resting against the couch, controller in hand, half-lost in the digital world. You pause for a second, watching him. He looks up, sensing your presence, and pauses the game. The room falls silent, save for the quiet hum of the console and the city noise seeping through the balcony doors.

“Hey,” you say gently, trying to keep your voice casual, “Have you seen my birth control?”

Sebastian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t avoid your eyes. In fact, he meets your gaze with the same composed softness that drew you to him in the first place. And then, with disarming calm, he replies:

“Yeah. I flushed them.”

For a second, you’re not sure you heard him right.

Your heart trips over itself as the weight of his words lands—heavy and unreal.

“…You what?” you ask, the question trembling at the edge of disbelief.

“I flushed them,” he says again, as if it were the most rational thing in the world.

His voice is low, measured. Too calm. That, more than anything, makes your stomach knot.

You’re no longer cold from the room.

You’re cold from the realization that something unspoken between you just shifted—and that silence, once comforting, now presses like a wall between two people who thought they understood each other.

“I did it because I thought you’d understand,” he says, voice low now. Almost pleading. “I thought you’d see this as something beautiful. Us. Growing.”

You take a shaky breath, eyes burning. “All I see is control. And I don’t know if I can come back from that.”

He steps forward quickly, desperation breaking through the calm. “Please—don’t leave,” he begs, his voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He falters. That word hits him like a slap. Control. Maybe it’s the first time he’s seeing himself clearly.

But it’s too late.

You step back. “I’m going to my sister’s,” you say, turning toward the bedroom. “Don’t follow me.”