The door shut behind Matt and Nick with a quiet click, and the silence that followed felt deafening. The kind of silence that weighed heavy, like the air itself knew what was about to happen.

Chris sat at the far end of the couch, hunched forward, his forearms resting on his knees, fingers wringing together like they couldn’t decide whether to hold on or let go. He wouldn’t look at you. Not really. Just kept staring at the floor like it might offer answers.

You stood a few feet away, arms crossed, heart somewhere between your throat and your stomach. “We can’t keep doing this,” you said softly, voice brittle around the edges. “We’re not okay, Chris. We haven’t been for a while.”

His head dipped lower. You could see the tension in his jaw, the way he ground his teeth like he was holding back a storm. “You think I don’t know that?” he muttered.

“Then why do you keep acting like this?” Your voice cracked, not out of anger, but exhaustion. Heartbreak. “Like I’m the enemy. Like you don’t care.”

“I do care,” he snapped — louder than he meant to. Then quieter, broken: “I care so much it fucking hurts.”

That was the thing about Chris. He didn’t know how to show it right. His love came out in defensive sarcasm, in retreating when he should’ve stayed, in trying to act like he didn’t feel things as deeply as he did.