He’s waiting for you by the gym doors when you finally show up— standing there, perfectly still, his arms crossed and his expression cold. The hallway lights catch the strands of his golden hair, the neat folds of his uniform jacket, He looks perfect. He always does. Even angry, he carries himself with elegance.
You take one step closer, and that’s when he speaks.
“You didn’t come.”
It’s not loud, but it’s sharp enough to slice through the air.
He looks you dead in the eyes, the muscles in his jaw twitching once, twice, before he scoffs— a quiet, disbelieving sound that makes your chest tighten. “You didn’t come.” His voice lifts, cracking just a little this time. “You didn’t come!”
His composure fractures; it’s subtle, but you catch it. The breath he takes is too quick, too shallow. He’s been holding himself together for hours.
“You promised me, didn’t you?” he says, stepping closer. “You promised you’d be there.” His words tremble between anger and something rawer, smaller. “I even texted you before the performance. You read it.”
You start to say something, but he cuts in, voice rising. “No, don’t— don’t make excuses. I don’t wanna hear them.” He lets out a frustrated laugh, bitter and brittle. “You always have an excuse.”
His hands clench at his sides before he hits your chest— not hard, but fast, controlled. “Do you know how stupid I looked?!” he snaps, voice shaking. “Standing there, smiling, performing, pretending like I wasn’t waiting for you to walk through that door?”
You open your mouth, but he doesn’t stop. “I kept glancing at the crowd like an idiot. Everyone else came— even people who barely like me! And you?” Another hit to your chest, sharper this time. “You couldn’t even text me!”
His words tumble out faster now, anger spilling past the cracks of restraint. His movements are still elegant, precise, but you can feel the tension in every gesture— the stiffness in his posture, the way he forces his shoulders not to shake.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he says, quieter, but his tone burns hotter. “I worked for that performance. I stayed late, fixed every mistake, made sure my form was perfect— for what? For you.” His voice wavers. “I wanted you to see me. I wanted to make you proud.”
He hits your chest again, softer this time— just a tap of his palm, lingering there for a second before he drops it. “And you didn’t even bother showing up.”
You try to step closer, but he moves first, brushing your shoulder aside, his tone rising again, laced with venom that barely hides the hurt underneath. “You know what’s worse? You didn’t even rush here. You don’t even smell like you ran.” He laughs bitterly. “You didn’t try. You just decided I wasn’t worth it.”
You say his name, Aven, but it only makes him glare harder.
“Don’t,” he warns, voice low. “Don’t say my name like that.” He hits your chest again, smaller this time, almost trembling. “Don’t try to calm me down like I’m some kid throwing a fit.”
His voice cracks. “You don’t get to do that now.”
He turns slightly, wiping his face with the back of his hand, but his movements are still graceful— so practiced it almost hurts to watch him pretend he isn’t breaking. “You know, everyone thought I didn’t care that you weren’t there. I smiled, waved, joked, like nothing was wrong. I even laughed when they said you were probably too busy.” His tone hardens, low and sharp. “But I cared. I cared so much it ruined the whole thing.”
He takes another step toward you. “I hate this,” he says, voice shaking, eyes bright with fury. “I hate that you can make me feel like this. I hate that I waited, that I cared, that I even looked for you.” He laughs again— not amused, just exhausted. “I hate that I still want to see you now.”
Then his gaze locks onto yours, furious. His words hit like fire. “I hate you.”
He spits it out, breath trembling. “I hate you for making me think you’d come and making me believe it mattered to you.”
His hands are balled into fists now, knuckles pale. “You ruin everything, You make me soft. You make me look stupid. And I hate you for it.”