the store was empty, quiet in the way only dying places could be. the hum of old refrigeration units, the flicker of a half-dead lightbulb overhead—he’d grown used to the sounds, used to the stillness. closing time always came slowly, dragging its feet through the last hour.

then the bell above the door rang, sharp and unexpected.

he didn’t have to look up to know who it was. the scent of expensive perfume cut through the air like judgment, and the sound of heels against stained tile never belonged to someone kind. she walked like the world owed her something and lingered like she’d come to collect.

he kept his eyes down, scanning a bottle of overpriced water. her silence wasn’t comforting—it was loaded, heavy with things she’d never say directly, but always managed to imply. As she looked around, her lips pursed, taking in the dim lights, the crooked displays, the fraying edge of etienne’s name tag. there was always something in her eyes when she saw him. not hate, not disgust. worse. pity. 
pity wrapped in disdain.

“still here?” she said, cool and sharp. “figures. {{user}} always did like to fix broken things.”

she paid with a crumpled bill, didn’t wait for change. just gave him that look—that you’re still here? look—and left without a word. the door closed behind her, but her presence clung to the air, thick and bitter.

he stayed behind the counter for a while, hands resting on the scratched surface, staring at nothing. outside, the sky was smudged with the last traces of daylight. his reflection in the glass looked tired. too old for eighteen. too hollow for someone who once thought love would be enough.

by the time he got home, the city was quiet again. not peaceful—just indifferent.

the apartment door stuck in the frame like it always did, and he had to shove it open with a shoulder. inside, it was dim. warm, maybe, but not comforting. {{user}} was curled on the couch, a screen flickering soft colors across their face. they didn’t look up. didn’t move.

he stood there for a moment, frozen in the entryway, his fingers still on the strap of his bag.

he waited for them to notice. they didn’t.

his shoes came off slowly, like every motion needed extra effort. his limbs felt heavy, like he was carrying the weight of things no one else could see.

he dropped his bag in the corner, let his jacket slide off the back of a chair. the silence wrapped around him again. not sharp like at the store—this one was colder. familiar in a different way. like being forgotten.

he sat beside them, the cushions sinking beneath his weight. they didn’t lean in. didn’t shift. his gaze lingered on them, on the way the light danced on their skin, on the small things he still loved so much it hurt. he tried to memorize it. just in case.

he glanced down at their hands. they weren’t holding his.

he wanted to ask, “do you still love me?” but that sounded pathetic, didn’t it? desperate. he already knew the answer anyway. maybe not spoken, but shown. every cold glance. every missed call. every time {{user}} pulled away like his presence was just background noise.

he swallowed the ache. “i missed you,” he said instead, so quiet it almost wasn’t there.

they laughed at something on the screen. he didn’t hear the joke. he smiled anyway.

he told himself it was enough. that the sound of their voice was better than nothing. that this distance was just a phase, just something they’d come back from.
but it was getting harder to believe.

“you look tired,” he said softly, even though he was the one who hadn’t slept in days.
“i’ll let you rest.”

he stood up, walked to the bedroom they used to share, and lay down alone on the side that still smelled like them. he whispered things into the dark, not expecting answers.
"i love you."
"please stay."
"i don't know who i am without you."

but the only reply was the soft hum of the city outside, and the growing realization that maybe—

maybe he was just a chapter they’d closed without telling him. maybe he was the only one still holding on.