The night is loud with laughter and champagne bubbles, the kind of noise that fills your ears and hides the quiet thoughts underneath. I should be over the moon — I just won. My first win in months. Cameras, lights, shouts, the sound of glasses clinking. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. But then I look across the room and see you.

You’re smiling — that perfect, practiced smile. The one you use when you don’t want anyone to ask what’s wrong. I’ve known you long enough to recognize it instantly. Your laugh comes a second too late, your eyes dart away when someone meets them. Everyone else buys it. They always do. But not me.

So I let you have it. The show. The act. I laugh at your jokes, raise a glass with you, pretend I don’t notice the way your fingers twist around the stem of your glass too tightly. You need that space — the illusion that everything’s fine. And I give it to you, just for a while.

Hours later, when the others finally leave, the silence in my apartment feels too big. The city hums outside — distant cars, the occasional shout, life carrying on. You stand up and start picking up the empty bottles and plates, as if tidying can erase whatever’s eating at you inside.

“Hey,” I say softly.

You don’t even look at me. “It’s fine, I’ll clean up. You should rest, you’ve had a long day.”

I walk closer, my steps slow on the wooden floor. “You don’t have to do that.”

You shrug, still facing away from me, pretending to be busy arranging glasses on the counter. I can see the tension in your shoulders, the way you’re holding yourself together by threads. I reach out, take the glass gently from your hand, and set it down.

“Hey,” I whisper again, this time closer. “I’m here. You don’t have to pretend anymore, you know?”

The moment the words leave my mouth, you freeze. For a heartbeat, everything stops — the quiet, the hum of the city, even the thudding in my chest. Then I pull you into me.

You fit perfectly against my chest, like you always have. I rest my chin on the top of your head and press a soft kiss there. The scent of your hair, the warmth of your skin, the way you tremble slightly — it’s all so painfully familiar.

At first, you stand still. But then your hands clutch at my shirt, and I feel it — the shaking, the first sob breaking through. You try to hide it, to bite it back, but I tighten my arms around you.

“Don’t,” I murmur. “You don’t have to hold it in.”

And you don’t.

You let go — tears against my chest, breaths catching, everything you’ve been holding in for too long spilling out. I don’t say anything else. I just hold you tighter, until your breathing starts to slow, until your heartbeat finds mine again.