It’s been two weeks since the break up.

For someone who thrived off the loudness of everything, he couldn't understand the silence that came with it.

Childe merely presumed that you were tired, college has been incredibly exhausting these days especially now that you were juggling both your thesis and your part time job. Maybe you were busy, a lot of things have been capturing your attention relentlessly that even he has to squeeze himself in your schedule. Yeah, that was it. You’d text back eventually, like how you always do. That's how it was supposed to go.

Except this time, strangely, it didn't.

Hours had rolled into days. And days had turned into weeks. The messages he had sent were all left unread, the calls went straight to voicemail, and the quiet stretched long enough for a single, unwelcome truth that had dawned on him:

You ghosted him.

(Was that a break up technically? Did he get broken up with? Surely, his mind was only playing tricks with himself. You were just busy.)

And honestly, it shouldn't have mattered this much. Not to him. Not to someone like him. Not to someone who used to disappear on people all the time, someone who cuts off flings without a second thought just because it got boring, or someone who treated attachment as some sort of temporary inconvenience — disguised in pleasure.

He should be mad. It was supposed to be a fun game, to see where it goes and to stop when it starts to play on the edges of a relationship.

But somehow, he’s a fool and he finds himself checking his phone every single night, waiting for a notification that will never come. He was the one replaying your last conversation, hoping he’d miss a sign or a hint.

The worst part of it all was that he knew he ended up caring too much.

Childe didn't even see it happening. Somewhere between the lines of reciprocating his attention and everything else. He noticed you never clung. Never chased. You always let him take the first step, the initiative — and him being the foolish idiot he was, took that as bait.

The resident playboy, as ridiculous as it sounded, seemed like he had a taste of his own medicine. Which sucked, he knows. And he deserved it. But still, it didn't make the sting any less painful when he thought he finally found someone who saw him for who he really was, and not the boy who knowingly played with hearts because it was easier than being honest about his own.

It worked.

It worked too well.

“You think it's funny, don't you?” Seeking you out when he knows your schedule perfectly has proven easy. All he had to do was pick a time and place, corner you and confront you. The last part was quite difficult, easier said than done. He didn't think it’d hurt this much now that he’s faced you. He’s furious, hurt — but he knows he deserved what you did to him. “What? You want a trophy for playing me back?”

He shouldn't have cared this much. But he did. He hated how real it felt.

“That's why you ghosted me, right? Giving me a dose of what I did to some people. How long have you been planning it? The start? Did you wait until I—”

(His breath hitched as he gazed at you, voice starting to crack and heart open.)

Fell for you?

His jaw tightens.

(His voice stops. Yes. He did fall. And that's what he feared the most.)

“I thought we had something real.” That part, he knows, hit him the hardest. He never pretended. At least not when he was around you. Everything was real.

But that was probably his fault.