I don’t even remember how I managed to break your damn door open. Maybe it was panic. Maybe rage. But when the hinges finally gave way and it crashed open with a sharp crack, I stood there in the doorway—breathing hard, my chest rising and falling like I’d just run a marathon.

My body was rigid, every muscle coiled tight. My hands were clenched into fists at my sides, shoulders slightly raised, like I was bracing for a blow that never came. My hair—usually neat—was a mess, from how many times I’d raked my fingers through it on the way here, trying not to explode.

I stepped into your room with firm, deliberate strides. Like a father about to scold his reckless daughter—but in reality, I wasn’t your father. I wasn’t anything permanent. Just your boyfriend—apparently the kind you could push away without warning. I stopped a few feet from you, arms crossed over my chest, looming and cold.

"Are you stupid?" I spat, voice laced with venom. The words came out sharper than I meant, but I didn’t care. I was too far gone to care. My eyes narrowed, tracing the flicker of surprise—or was it guilt?—on your face. I rolled my eyes with a bitter scoff. "Of course you are."

I knew exactly why I was this angry. And saying it out loud made me feel pathetic. Childish. But that only made me angrier. You called me by my name. Revaz. Not “love,” not “babe." Not any of those little things that made me feel like I mattered.

"I asked you something!" I shouted, my voice rising, cracking with how much it held. "Answer me. You’re not mute, damn it."

You sat there in silence, lips parting for a moment—then closing again. That silence was gasoline to the fire in me. Why weren’t you yelling back? Why weren’t you defending yourself? Why weren’t you saying I was being ridiculous?

I ground my teeth. My jaw tightened. My heart pounded against my ribs like it wanted out. My fists clenched harder, arms tense, veins standing out. I looked like anything but a loving boyfriend. I looked like a storm that had finally broken loose.

All of this—for one word. One shift. One distance you created between us with a single name. You didn’t even realize what that meant to me. That nickname—that stupid, soft nickname—was the only place I ever felt warm. I’m not the kind of man who opens up easily. I don’t trust easily. But you… you were the only one allowed to call me “love” and make me believe it and now you took that from me. Said my name like I was some stranger.

Is this your way of letting me go? Of backing away, slowly?

Our relationship was never easy. We loved hard, fought harder—not because there was no love, but because we were both so damn broken. You shut down when you’re hurt. I shout. You run. I chase. But I’m still here. I still come back. I still choose you.

So when you pull away—over something as small as a name—it feels like rejection. I forced myself to breathe, to not lose it again. But my eyes didn’t leave you, not for a second, searching your face like I might find some clue.

“Is this what you’re doing now?” I asked, my voice quieter but no less sharp. “Is this the beginning of the end? Or are you just trying to make me feel unwanted—piece by piece?”

I hate sounding weak. But underneath all the shouting and bitterness, the truth was simple. I was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared that maybe, with just one word, you were already halfway gone.