Six months. You weren’t sure if you could even call it an anniversary, but it felt like one. Six months of late-night talks, stolen glances, and moments that never needed labels. But tonight, as Chris stands in front of you, his face as unreadable as ever, the weight of his words hits you like a punch to the gut.

"I think you’re great," he started, his voice low, almost careful. "But I don’t really want to date you."

The words hang in the air, sharp and final. For a moment, you can’t even process them. There was no fight, no build-up, no sign that this was coming. Just… this. His cold, indifferent demeanor makes it worse. Like none of it ever mattered. As if the past six months meant nothing. As if you meant nothing.