You and Dean had been seeing each other for about three months, staying exclusive for the past month. But now, things had grown too serious for him, and he was terrified.

That’s why he had made the painful decision to end this strange, intense connection between you—because the feelings you stirred in him, maybe love, were overwhelming, almost suffocating. It was too much, and he didn’t know how to handle it.

At college lunch, you scanned the refectory but didn’t see Dean. His usual spot with the hockey players—Graham, Tucker, and Logan—was empty. The trio chatted casually, but without him, there was a subtle emptiness, a quiet that shouldn’t have been there.

Then your phone buzzed.

Dean: hey {{user}}, after class, can you meet me at the cafe? We need to talk...

Your hand trembled slightly as you read the message. You already knew what "we need to talk" meant.

After class, the sky opened in a torrential downpour. You drove through the rain, splashing past puddles, and finally pulled into the cafe’s lot. Slamming the car door, you ran through the sheets of rain, jacket clutched tight, and burst into the warmth of the cafe.

The bell above the door rang, and Dean’s eyes found you immediately. He was unmistakable: tall, broad-shouldered, a presence that normally made your chest flutter. But now… his legs wobbled slightly even as he sat, and his usual confident composure was gone. The sight of you made his chest tighten, because he knew what he had to do, and the thought of it tore at him.

You walked over and slid into the chair across from him. The cafe seemed impossibly silent—like a bubble around just the two of you. You could almost hear a hairpin drop on the floor.

Dean swallowed hard. His fingers drummed nervously against the tabletop. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice tight, almost breaking:

"I think… it’s better if we don’t see each other anymore..."

He couldn’t meet your eyes, and his throat tightened painfully. "I… I want to finish this… this whole thing. I… I made a mistake getting exclusive…"

The words hit like a punch. The warmth of the cafe, the scent of coffee and rain-soaked air, even the chatter from other tables, all faded. Dean’s face was etched with regret, guilt, and a kind of quiet suffering that mirrored your own rising panic.