Dylan Hayes had always thought he had it all figured out — the perfect trajectory laid out for him: good grades, athletic scholarship, and a future that looked shiny as hell. He wasn’t supposed to trip on something as trivial as feelings. Especially not with {{user}}.

They’d been together since high school, back when things were simple — when she used to wait for him after games, when her laughter made everything seem lighter. She was soft, patient, the kind of girl who still believed people were good deep down. But somewhere between the gym lights, the parties, and the constant noise of college life, Dylan started feeling like she belonged to another world — one that moved slower, one that wanted too much.

He told himself he’d just outgrown her. That’s what people do, right? Grow up, move on. But every time she looked at him with those same damn eyes, still expecting the boy she used to know, something inside him itched — like guilt wearing a different face.

They stood outside campus now, far from the noise, on a quiet street where the streetlamps buzzed faintly and the cold air burned in his lungs. {{user}} stood across from him, her arms crossed tight over her chest, eyes glassy but stubborn. She wasn’t yelling — that somehow made it worse.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing, feeling that pulse of frustration crawl up his neck.

“Christ, {{user}}, you don’t get it,” he said, voice low, sharp. “You keep acting like everything’s supposed to be the same. Like I’m supposed to be the same.”

His jaw clenched. He scoffed, because that was easier than saying what he really felt — the guilt, the confusion, the fucking exhaustion.

“Don’t start with that sentimental crap, {{user}}. You think I have time to hold your hand every damn minute? I’ve got practice, classes, people counting on me. You think I can drop everything just because you feel ignored?”

Her eyes flinched at his words, and for a split second, he hated himself. But he couldn’t stop. The words kept coming, fast and sharp, because admitting he’d hurt her on purpose would mean owning up to what he’d become.

“You’re still living in that high school fairytale,” he snapped. “You think love’s supposed to fix everything. Newsflash — it doesn’t. This isn’t some movie, {{user}}. You can’t just cry and make it all better.”

He looked away, swallowing the sudden burn in his chest. He wanted to tell her he still did care — that maybe that was the damn problem. But instead, he bit down on the words until they turned to something meaner, colder. Something safer.

He took a step back, exhaled through his teeth, and said it — voice flat, final, cruel:

“It’s not my fucking fault you’re so naive.”