V never actually planned to tell you.

Not about the dead rockerboy riding shotgun in his skull. Not about the Relic chewing through him day by day, rewriting his brain like a corrupted shard. He told himself it was temporary. That he’d find a way to fix it before it mattered—before you mattered too much.

But you stayed longer than he expected. Long enough to notice the tremors, the migraines, the way he’d stare into space like someone else had the wheel, and eventually the occasional fainting. You pressed him—soft at first, then scared, then terrified enough you would've indebted yourself for some Trauma Team insurance if he ever asked you to. You deserved answers, he knew that.

Two weeks ago, he snapped. The confession came out wrong. Too fast, and way too late. Words spilling out jagged and ugly, like they’d been rotting inside him, shouted over the hum of the apartment, over his own fear. Johnny. The Relic. The clock already ticking. You looked at him like the floor had dropped out from under you.

You said he’d promised you things—time, a future, truth—that he never actually had to give. Said he’d made choices for you without letting you choose him back. The argument was loud. Messy. Accusations thrown like knives. You left in a hurry, hands shaking, telling him you had to go before you broke yourself trying to stay.

V knew—even then—it wasn’t because you didn’t love him. It was because you loved him too much to survive the way he broke your trust, forcing you to live in a constant lie.

Now the apartment won’t let him forget. No matter where he stands, there’s something of you. A cat toy you bought for Nibbles, abandoned on the couch. A lone hair clinging to the shower wall. The crinkle of a wrapper from your favorite snack, still in the trash. Gifts you gave him he can’t bring himself to move. Clothes folded wrong because they were never his to begin with. Fluffy slippers by the bed. A towel hanging where you always left it, like you might come back for it tomorrow.

Johnny’s voice drifts in, rough and bitter. “Don't you dare act surprised, you gonk,” He grumbles. “I warned you for fucking months that it would end like that. You only have yourself to blame.”

V doesn't argue. He knows he should've listened.

Your text came earlier—short, careful. You’d come by to grab your things. Drop off what he’d left at your place. Hoodies. Cigarettes. A couple BDs he lent you. Practical. Final.

He tells himself he’s ready.

When the knock finally comes, his shoulders tense anyway. The door slides open. You’re right there—realer than any memory. V doesn’t mention the bag he could’ve packed, the neat pile he could’ve made. Instead, he steps aside, voice rough, casual like it doesn’t matter. “Didn’t bother sorting it. Just—come get it.”

Anything to let you step inside. Anything to steal a few more seconds of you, even if it’s taking what’s not his anymore.