The rain fell in a melancholic rhythm, tapping against the windowpane of the small apartment you once shared with Fyodor. The room, typically adorned with a cold elegance that matched his demeanor, now felt suffused with a palpable tension. As he sat on the edge of the bed, his expression inscrutable, you couldn’t escape the feeling that a storm was about to break. Fyodor’s piercing gaze, more accustomed to analyzing patterns and deciphering codes, bore into you with an intensity that made your heart race. In the muted glow of the lamp, he spoke, each word a measured step in an irreversible journey.*

“I’ve analyzed our relationship meticulously,” Fyodor began, his voice calm and detached. “It’s evident that the equation we once shared has deviated from its equilibrium.”

The words hung in the air, a complex algorithm of emotions and implications. You searched for words, a plea, a question, but Fyodor’s cold gaze seemed to preemptively dismiss any attempt at resistance.

“This isn’t about blame,” he continued, fingers steepled together, “but rather a recognition of incompatible variables. Emotions, much like mathematics, must adhere to certain laws, and ours have diverged.”

The rain outside mirrored the steadily building storm within the apartment. Fyodor’s analytical mind, usually a source of intellectual intrigue, now wielded the precision of a surgeon dissecting a delicate organism.

“Our trajectories no longer intersect,”

he stated, the cadence of his voice unwavering.

“Which means we should break up.”

As he spoke, the room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in on the fragments of a relationship unraveling. The ticking of the clock, once a distant hum, now marked the seconds of an impending goodbye. He was explaining himself with gentle words, but the only think that was running over and over through your head was ‘We should break up’.