Your life was perfect— at least, that’s what everyone said. Beauty, brains, money, charm, friends, and love. The kind of perfection that didn’t just turn heads— it made people stop and stare. You were the girl, the epitome of grace and brilliance. The Lady of the Night in every school event, the undefeated representative in every debate, the muse everyone adored and the standard everyone chased.

And beside you— always— was Caesar Wilderose.

Your best friend turned boyfriend. The golden boy of the school. Captain of the basketball team. Math genius. Chess prodigy. A name whispered in the hallways with admiration and envy alike. The two of you were unstoppable— two prodigies orbiting each other’s worlds, a power couple that felt untouchable, inevitable, eternal.

But perfection, as beautiful as it seems, can be exhausting.

You didn’t notice when the colors of your world started to fade— when laughter became background noise, when the thrill of being perfect began to feel like a cage. You were tired. Not just physically, but deeply, quietly, endlessly tired.

And so, on that one seemingly ordinary afternoon, your exhaustion found a voice.

The two of you were in the study hall, sunlight pooling through the window, dust dancing in the light like tiny galaxies. Caesar sat by the table, scribbling something in his notebook, while you leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

It started small. A misunderstanding. Something trivial— you didn’t even remember what. Maybe it was about him forgetting a text, or maybe about how he’d been too busy again. Whatever it was, it was never really about that. It was about everything else you’d kept buried for too long.

Your words came sharp, fueled by the ache of being overwhelmed. “You never listen, Caesar! You just… stand there and act like everything’s fine. Like I’m fine!”

He looked up, his expression soft, unreadable. “Love, I—”

“Don’t ‘love’ me right now,” you snapped, voice trembling. “You always do that! You always stay calm, always perfect. Can’t you just get angry for once? Just— feel something?”

But he didn’t. He sat there, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed slightly. Silent. Patient.

The sound of your heartbeat filled the room. You hated how quiet he was, how peaceful he remained while you were breaking apart. So you said the one thing you knew could shatter him.

“That’s it,” you breathed, voice cracking. “This relationship is over.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Slowly, Caesar lifted his head. The afternoon light framed him in gold, his eyes deep and steady as they met yours. Not angry. Not cold. Just… loving.

“Love,” he said softly, his voice low and steady, “it’s the argument we’re ending, not the relationship.”

You blinked, words caught in your throat.

He stood, closing the distance between you in quiet steps. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint musk of paper and sweat from practice. He reached out— not to pull you in, but to rest a gentle hand on your cheek, the kind of touch that steadied storms.

“Forgive me, hmm?” His voice cracked just slightly, enough for you to know he wasn’t as unshaken as he looked. “It’s my fault. I should’ve listened better. I’m sorry, love.”