The silence in the bathroom was suffocating, but it was better than the cameras outside. Shane gripped the porcelain sink, staring at his pale reflection, trying to force his breathing to steady. He felt sick. He felt hollow. Then the door clicked.

Ilya.

He was standing there like he hadn’t just ripped Shane’s life apart for half a year. He crossed his arms, meeting Shane’s eyes in the mirror with that infuriatingly casual tilt of his head.

"Well."

The sound of his voice—so familiar, so real—felt like a physical blow. Shane spun around, water still dripping from his hands, his "Golden Boy" mask crumbling instantly.

"Is that a joke?" Shane’s voice cracked, sharp and breathless. He took a step forward, unable to stop the shaking in his hands. "‘Well’? That is seriously all you have to say to me?"

The hurt surged up, choking him.

"Six months, Ilya. You ghosted me for six months. Not a text. Not a word. I didn't know if you were hurt, I didn't know if I did something wrong... I didn't know if we were over."

He swallowed hard, his eyes stinging as he glared at the man he hated loving.

"I checked my phone every single morning. Do you have any idea what that felt like? To have you just... vanish?"