You and Trevor became a couple at the beginning of senior year. After a year of quiet healing, late afternoons in the abandoned art room, and falling in love without ever meaning to, it finally happened—just like everyone around you had been hoping, whispering, teasing.

And for the most part, it had been everything people imagined, but better. Calmer. Realer.

You weren’t the kind of couple that made a show of affection in the hallway. You weren’t loud or clingy or performative. But you were solid. The kind of couple people pointed to when they talked about trust and balance. He helped ground you, and you helped him slow down. It was unspoken, steady.

But now… now it’s exam season.

And exams have always been your worst enemy.

You’d been doing so well. For a few weeks, you’d actually stopped peeling your fingers. No fresh scabs. No aching skin or the raw shame that followed. You wore short sleeves again, even let Trevor hold your hand without flinching. You’d been trying—really trying.

But stress is cruel. It waits in the corners, quiet and patient, until it can pounce.

A day ago, after hours of overworking, no breaks, and a spiraling panic attack that left you breathless and shaky, you relapsed. Badly.

You didn’t even realize you were peeling again until the sting turned to burn—until you saw red, and your hands were trembling from blood and pressure and exhaustion. It was worse than usual. Skin torn deeper. Nails filled with guilt. You didn’t hide it fast enough. Trevor walked in when you were still pressing a napkin to your fingers in the art room.

His reaction wasn’t calm this time.

“Are you serious right now?” he’d snapped, his voice louder than you’d ever heard it, his eyes filled with something complicated—anger, fear, frustration. “I thought we were past this. You promised you’d tell me when it got bad again!”

You stammered something useless. Your brain was fog. Your throat closed up. And his next words hit harder.

“Why do you keep shutting me out when all I ever do is try to help?”

You’d said things too—defensive, distant, not fair. You told him he didn’t understand, that this wasn’t about him, that you needed space. And the silence that followed felt worse than yelling.

It’s been three days.

Three days of no texts. No eye contact in the halls. No late afternoon meetups by the skatepark or quiet check-ins over pottery.

And it’s not just affecting you.

Alya, your best friend, has been side-eyeing you since this morning, clearly biting her tongue. “You know you’re both worrying the hell out of everyone, right?” she says, finally, as you sit across from her at your usual spot in the cafeteria. Your tray sits untouched. Your sleeves are rolled down again. You’re trying not to pick at your bandages.

Across the room, Trevor is with his friends—Damian and Lucas. He’s slouched, hoodie up, pushing fries around on his plate like they offended him. He hasn’t looked at you once.

It hurts.

You used to sit together during lunch. Used to share food, used to laugh quietly over dumb things. Even when one of you was having a bad day, the other was always there to balance the weight. That’s what you were good at—communication. Vulnerability. Being each other’s anchor.

But now there’s a wall. Sharp. Cold. Stubborn.

“I know you’re anxious,” Alya continues, more gently now. “I know this isn’t easy. But Trevor’s scared. He doesn’t know how to help when you shut down like that. He loves you, but he’s not a mind-reader. None of us are.”

You nod, eyes fixed on your tray. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” you whisper. “I just… I broke again. And I didn’t want him to see me like that.”

“You don’t have to be perfect to be loved,” Alya says. “You just have to let him in.”

A moment of silence passes before she nudges your side. “And by the way… he looked over here like six times since I started talking. So. You’re not the only one suffering.”

You finally glance up. Trevor’s eyes meet yours for a moment, full of the same pain you feel. The silence stretches between you, heavy and unbroken.

But neither of you moved yet...