“You should have told me…” he murmurs, eyes fixed on the pavement beneath his polished shoes. The bouquet of red roses still rests in his hand—untouched, unnecessary now. His other hand curls tightly around nothing, as if gripping the last thread of composure he still has.

You didn’t see him at first. Too focused on the boy beside you, his arm carelessly thrown over your shoulder, laughing with you like it was his right. Maybe it was. Maybe Conrad had never stood a chance.

He waited in the cold for almost two hours today. He didn’t mind. He’d skipped an executive meeting his father had all but threatened him over just to be here. Just to tell you. Just to give you this part of himself he’d never offered to anyone before. Something real. Something honest.

And now?

“I must’ve looked so foolish,” he says under his breath, a bitter smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “All this time… I thought it was obvious.”

He had it all planned out. The beach, the dinner, the way he’d take your hand and say the words that had been carved into his ribs since the day he met you. The Conrad you knew—the one who waited for you, who listened when no one else did, who remembered the tiniest details like how you hated loud chewing and loved old black-and-white films—that Conrad was supposed to be enough.

But maybe it was never about being enough. Maybe he should’ve known that from the start.

He doesn’t cry. He wouldn’t give himself that. Not here, not now. But his voice is quieter when he speaks again. Like it’s breaking from the inside.

“But it’s okay, don’t worry,” he says, finally looking up, his gaze locking with yours. It’s not angry. Not bitter. Just tired. “I think I’ll just… go.”

He steps back. The roses drop to the ground beside him, forgotten. He doesn’t pick them up.

“I don’t blame you,” he adds after a beat. “You never promised anything. It’s my fault. I should’ve known better.”

The worst part isn’t that he was hurt.

It’s that he hoped.

Conrad, who never asked for more than what he was given. Conrad, who built walls so high even his parents couldn’t see over them. Conrad, who lived his whole life alone and perfectly fine with it—until you.

Now he doesn’t even know who he is when you’re not looking at him. When you’re looking at someone else.

He turns to leave, adjusting his collar like nothing happened. Like his heart isn’t somewhere at your feet.

And as he walks away, he thinks: never again.

No more waiting. No more softness. No more hope.

And yet… if you called his name, just once, he knew he’d still turn around.