You stood at the edge of Jamie's flat, your back to him, the perfume clinging to his hoodie like it belonged to someone else. Someone not you.

He said your name gently—too gently. Like he knew he was already losing you.

"Can we just talk about it?"

You turned, eyes glassy. "Talk about what? The fact you don’t look at me the same anymore? That you’ve been ‘busy’ and unreachable for days? That I had to hear it from someone else that you were seen out with—"

"She’s just a friend—"

You laughed, bitter. "Then why does your hoodie smell like her? Why are there heels on your damn balcony?"

He looked down. Silent. Guilty.

And that’s when you knew.

"You didn’t even have the guts to tell me before I found out on my own," you said, voice shaking, but somehow still steady. "Do you know how humiliating that is, Jamie?"

"I didn’t mean to—"

"No. You just didn’t mean to get caught."

You moved past him, grabbing your things, the sound of drawers slamming and zippers dragging across silence. You didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not in front of him.

So you smiled—tight and tired—and said, “I’d rather lie than tell you I’m still in love with you.”

His jaw clenched, and he reached for you, but you stepped back.

“Don’t.”