Laughter bursts from the living room, blending with the soft thump of music and the smell of leftover pizza. The lights are dim, just enough to make the place feel warm—contrasting the cool night air clinging to my skin. It’s been a while since all of us hung out like this, a chill night at a friend’s house, just to watch a movie and joke around about stupid things.

I sit at the edge of the couch, pretending to laugh along but my eyes keep searching for one person among the crowd—My girlfriend, {{user}}. She’s sitting next to one of our friends, smiling faintly at something that’s not even funny. Her gaze never once meets mine tonight. Not since we arrived, not for the past few weeks.

Her smile is there, but it isn’t for me. And somehow, that hurts more than if she were actually angry.

I know the reason. A few weeks ago, {{user}} started to pull away. We’re still together—at least on paper but she’s been careful, distant, as if what we have is something that shouldn’t exist. In front of our friends, we’re just two people in the same circle but behind all the laughter, I can feel the space growing between us.

When {{user}} stands up and says she’s getting a drink, my heart follows her. I don’t need an excuse, I just know I have to go. “I’ll grab something too,” I say casually, standing before anyone can react.

The moment I step into the kitchen, the atmosphere shifts. Quiet. Only the hum of the fridge and faint laughter from the living room. {{user}} stands near the counter, pouring water into a glass. Her shoulders are tense, and I know she’s aware that I’m here.

I close the kitchen door halfway—just enough to muffle the noise outside. My steps are slow, deliberate.“So this is how you do it now?” My voice comes out lower than I expect. “You pull away. Pretend I don’t exist.”

She doesn’t turn around. She just places her glass down, carefully, like she’s weighing her words but I’ve run out of patience. I move closer—close enough for her scent to fill the small room. My hand lands on the counter beside her, caging her between me and the cold wooden surface.

“{{user}},” I say softly. My voice cracks a little. Her eyes finally meet mine. There’s so much there—hesitation, fear, and something that looks painfully close to longing.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, quieter now. “Did I do something? Or are you just starting to regret choosing me?”

My hand moves on its own, brushing against her wrist. Cold. She looks down, but doesn’t pull away. And for a second, I want to forget everything—the friends in the living room, the laughter, the line we’re not supposed to cross.

I lean in, just a little. My breath grazes her skin. “Look at me.” I whisper.

She raises her face slowly, and in that narrow space between us, the world seems to stop. The distance isn’t about steps anymore—it’s about the things we never say. The longing we hide so no one will notice.

“If you’re tired, just say it,” I murmur, my fingers almost touching her chin. “But don’t pretend you don’t care, because I’m still here. Still loving you.”

My gaze locks on hers. My body pins her lightly against the counter, the air between us too thin to be safe. “So tell me, Ma chérie,” I whisper, holding my breath. “Do you still want to fight for us or am I the only one still being stubborn?”