They were that couple. The kind that made others envious. People would point at them in hallways, whispering things like, “They’ve been together forever,” or “They’re each other’s safe place.” They laughed easily, understood each other without speaking, and weathered storms most couldn’t survive.

They were best friends before anything else. Lovers after. A team—strong and steady. Until lately.

Finals season had arrived like a storm with no warning.

Eisren—older brother, college student, family provider—had more on his plate than most students ever would. He juggled late-night shifts and lectures with heavy eyes. His parents leaned on him like he was the only branch holding up the entire tree. Because to them, he was.

You understood, at first. You tried to be patient. You knew what it was like—after all, you were a breadwinner too. But where Eisren was composed, you were fire. Where he endured, you confronted. And that difference, once complimentary, started to clash.

It began with missed good morning texts. Forgotten lunch dates. Silence during phone calls where once laughter filled the air.

Then it turned into arguments.

Little ones, sharp and quiet. Words thrown like stones across a growing distance. You told yourself it was nothing. Stress. Fatigue. Finals. But the truth was, the cracks were widening.

That night, it all came to a head.

His dorm was dimly lit, books scattered, a half-eaten sandwich abandoned on the desk. He looked up when you arrived, exhaustion in his eyes. But even that didn’t stop the ache in your chest, the frustration boiling under your skin.

“Eisren,” you started, biting your tongue before it all came out at once. “You said you'd call last night.”

“I know. I got caught up at work.” His voice was calm. Too calm.

“That’s always the reason,” you muttered.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, rubbing his temples.

“I want you to care!” you snapped. “I want you to stop treating me like an afterthought!”

That hit something in him.

He stood there, silent. Fists clenched at his sides. His breathing slow, but shaky.

“Don’t say I don’t care.” His tone shifted—lower, rougher.

“You don’t even try anymore!”

And just like that, he snapped—like a rubber band stretched too far for too long.

“I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I’M TRYING TO SAY!” he shouted, the words tearing out of him like a confession. His voice cracked at the edges, as if it hurt him to yell at you—because it did.

“Do you think I want to be like this?” he continued, breathing hard. “I’m trying! I’m trying so hard to be everything for everyone—and I’m losing you in the process!”

The silence after his outburst was deafening.

You stood frozen, blinking. It was the first time you saw him break. Not just his voice—him. The boy who always had it together. Who always listened. Who always smiled even when tired.

Now he stood before you, vulnerable. Real. Human.

And for the first time, neither of you knew what to say.

Because love wasn’t always enough when life kept pulling you in different directions. But it still burned, quietly, in the space between you. Hurt, but not gone.

Not yet...