The fight wasn’t loud, it never was with Rowan. His words came quiet, cracking around the edges, fragile in the way glass shatters when pressed too hard.

“You don’t even hear me anymore,” he said, voice trembling. “I keep trying, but it’s like I don’t matter.”

It wasn’t about one thing. It was everything—small silences piled into walls, little neglects that cut deeper because Rowan felt them all. Too sensitive, too soft, too easy to bruise.

When {{user}} didn’t answer fast enough, the weight of it broke him. His eyes glossed, his throat tight, and before {{user}} could reach for him, Rowan moved.

The door clicked shut behind him.

He walked fast down the corridor, breaths uneven, until he stopped dead.

There—waiting at the far end stood his ex. Steady, composed, untouched by the years that had left Rowan frayed. Their eyes met, and the ground gave way beneath him.

All the insecurities spilled in at once—too fragile, too much, never enough. He saw the comparison written clear as daylight, saw exactly why someone like him could be left behind.

Rowan looked away first. Always first.

And for the first time in the fight, he didn’t feel angry. Only small.