In hindsight, maybe {{user}} should have seen this coming, but she didn’t.

Her face stays frozen as Leon, her on-and-off situationship of two years, mumbles, “I think we should break this off.”

It’s so faint, so uncertain, she almost asks him to repeat it just to be sure she heard right. But the words—barely above a whisper—hit their mark anyway, and she can feel the air shift between them.

He’s hunched over, forearms pressing into the edge of the countertop, his untouched breakfast sitting cold in front of him. The way he shrinks into himself, like he’s trying to disappear, throws her completely off. For all his charm and confidence, Leon never struck her as the type to squirm, especially not with her. He had nerves of steel, unshakable resolve, a casual ease that always left her playing catch-up. Sure, he had his adorably awkward moments—tripping over his words when he got too excited, cracking a smile when he tried to stay serious—but this? Vulnerability like this? She’d never seen it before.

The kitchen feels heavier than it should, suffocating even, despite the winter sun spilling across the counters. Its brightness clashes with the gloom settling over them. {{user}} blinks, waiting for him to laugh it off, to say something self-deprecating that softens the blow or reveals this was all a bad joke. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look up.