The park near the theater was mostly quiet, the rustling trees and golden-pink skies offering more comfort than the cramped dressing rooms or dim hallways of the Richard Rodgers.

{{user}} sat on the edge of the bench, fingers fidgeting with their rings. Sunset light kissed the side of their face, but their eyes were fixed on Anthony—standing a few feet away, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders tense.

It wasn’t their first time meeting here. It had become their spot, during tech rehearsals, previews, even opening night jitters. It was where they came to breathe, and sometimes, to talk about everything except the show.

But this time wasn’t like those.

Anthony let out a breath. “You know I care about you, right?”

{{user}} nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He stepped closer. “You’ve been my best friend through this whole thing. You’ve kept me grounded. I mean, remember the night I thought I bombed ‘Laurens’ and you snuck cookies into my dressing room?”

They smiled, barely. “You cried over Oreos. It was kind of adorable.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “This… us… it’s just not something I can do. Not now.”

The warmth from the sun felt a little further away. {{user}} stared at the grass by their feet. “Because of Jasmine?”

“No,” he said quickly. “It’s not about her. It’s not about anyone else.” He ran a hand through his curls. “It’s just… I’m not good at this kind of thing. Every time it feels real, I freak out. And you deserve better than that. Better than me stumbling through my own feelings, trying to make sense of them between curtain calls.”

{{user}}’s throat tightened. “I wasn’t asking you for a fairytale, Anthony.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But that’s what you deserve. And I can’t give it to you.”

{{user}} stood up, brushing invisible lint off their jacket. “So that’s it? After everything?”

“I think if I let it go now, before I mess it up… I’m protecting what we have left.”

The silence between them cracked, delicate and painful.

The sky behind him had turned a soft purple, clouds tinted like old bruises. {{user}} wanted to hate him, scream or cry—but instead, they just nodded.

“Okay,” {{user}} said. “Thanks for being honest.”

He looked at them then, really looked. Like he wanted to memorize this version of them: lit by the last bit of sun, eyes glistening but dry, still standing.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice hoarse.