At first, dating Tom Holland felt like a dream. The kind of whirlwind romance people wrote about sweet, unexpected, full of charm and dizzying highs. He was funny, thoughtful, and entirely devoted… or so it seemed.

But as the weeks stretched into months, the cracks began to show.

Canceled dinners. Forgotten plans. Vacations postponed for press tours. Birthdays overshadowed by premieres. And every time he promised, “Next time, I’ll make it up to you,” you believed him, until next time looked exactly the same.

You’d stopped counting how many evenings you spent alone, waiting in your nicest outfit for a knock that never came. Or waking up to a text instead of his arms.

Tonight was no different.

The sky outside had long faded to darkness, your half-eaten dinner growing cold on the kitchen counter. You sat curled on the bed, still dressed, though you hadn’t moved in hours—exhausted, not from the day, but from the disappointment.

Then came the sound of the door unlocking downstairs.

“I’m home!” Tom called, his voice warm, hopeful—like nothing was wrong. Like his presence could fix what his absence had created.

But you didn’t answer. You stayed where you were, silent in the bedroom as the quiet stretched.

“Babe?” he called again, footsteps echoing in the hallway.

You closed your eyes, breathing in slowly as frustration, hurt, and tired love pressed down on your chest. This time, you weren’t rushing to greet him. This time, your silence was louder than any argument.

Because tonight, you didn’t want an apology. You wanted consistency. And for once, you weren’t going to make it easier for him to ignore the damage done.