The train station was alive in the way only places of departure ever were—voices overlapping, footsteps echoing off tiled floors, the metallic scream of rails in the distance. People moved with purpose, bags slung over shoulders, eyes already elsewhere. Everyone was leaving something behind.

Shiv stood beside you near the edge of the platform, hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat like he was trying to anchor himself. His jaw was set, gaze fixed on the track ahead. He hadn’t looked at you in minutes. Not because he didn’t want to—because he wanted to too much.

The train roared past on the far platform, wind snapping his coat against his legs.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” you said quietly.

For a second, he didn’t react at all. Just nodded once, sharp and automatic, like his body had answered before his mind caught up.

“…What?”

The word came out flat. Almost careless. But it cracked at the edges.

You watched his shoulders tense beneath the worn fabric, the way his mouth pulled into that familiar hard line—the one he used when he was bracing for a hit he couldn’t dodge.

He swallowed. Cleared his throat.

“He American?” he asked, still not looking at you.

The question landed heavier than it should have.

You hesitated. “Yeah.”

That did it.

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He let out a quiet huff through his nose—half a laugh, half a breath he didn’t know what to do with.

“Figures,” he muttered.

“You don’t get to be jealous,” you said, testing the space between you, already knowing it was a lie.

He turned then, eyes snapping to yours. Not angry. Just exposed.

Jealous didn’t even begin to cover it.

Because you could see it—clear as day. That look he got when he watched a train pull away with someone he loved on it. The one that said he expected people to leave. That he’d already started preparing himself for it.

He looked away again quickly, eyes dropping to the concrete.

A long moment passed.

Then, quietly—almost like he didn’t want the answer—he asked, “He treat you right?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his voice.

“Yeah,” you said. “He does.”

Shiv nodded. Slow. Careful. Like he was absorbing the weight of it one piece at a time.

He still didn’t look at you. He couldn’t.

“I can’t keep doing this, Shiv,” you continued, voice lower now. “Andrei can’t—”

“Yeah. I know.”

He cut you off gently but firmly, like slamming a door before it could hurt more. He stepped a half-step away, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with shaking fingers, smoke curling between you like a barrier.

He took a drag, exhaled slowly.

Didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t have to.

The train announcement crackled overhead.

And just like that, he let you go— the only way he knew.