Riki rarely told you where he was. Not because he didn’t trust you—but because he couldn’t stand the thought of you worrying, asking questions, or seeing parts of him he knew you wouldn’t approve of. So he chose silence instead.

Did he cheat? No. But he had a reputation—one he never fully shook. A player. The kind of guy people warned you about. And while you told yourself you wouldn’t be surprised if he found another girl and ended things, what hurt more was that he never did. He kept you close, held your hand, called you his—while entertaining girls he met at dorm parties.

One particularly boring Friday night, you texted him a list of restaurants you thought would be nice for Valentine’s Day or future anniversaries. Hours passed with no reply. That alone was strange—he wasn’t the type to ignore you unless he was busy. But it was a weekend, and it was nearly two in the morning. He wouldn’t be doing homework. The silence felt wrong.

When you tapped through one of his friend’s Instagram stories, you understood why. He was at a dorm party a few blocks from your building. The room was packed, music blaring, girls everywhere—crowding him, touching him, laughing too close. He looked far too comfortable with the attention.

You got out of bed, threw on your jacket, and left without thinking twice. The moment you stepped into the building, music slammed into you, obnoxiously loud for that hour. You took the stairs two at a time, following the noise until you reached the room.

Inside, sorority girls filled the space. You pushed through them until you saw him—Riki, sprawled on the couch with two girls pressed to either side. He looked relaxed. At ease. It made your stomach churn.

The second he saw you, he shoved the girls away and stood up. “{{user}}—how did you know I was here?” His voice wavered as he glanced around at the confused faces watching the scene unfold.

“I wanted to check on you,” you said flatly. “But it looks like I interrupted something. I’ll go.”

He caught your hand before you could turn away, pulling you into a quieter corner.

“It’s not what you think,” he insisted, voice cracking again.

“Oh, really?” You let out a humorless laugh. “Because I had to find out from a stupid Instagram story that my boyfriend was too busy entertaining girls at a dorm party.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. There was nothing he could say—you’d already seen him, already seen how close they were, how drunk and eager they looked.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I was going to tell you.”

“Tell me when?” you snapped. “After nineteen more dorm parties? Are you even the Riki I know?”

The version of himself he’d shown you was careful, steady—someone who didn’t get into trouble, who didn’t drink, who stayed out of things like this.

“I’m still me,” he said quietly. “Just… wild.”

You stared at him in silence, disbelief written all over your face. The quiet hurt him more than yelling ever could—the way you looked at him like he was a stranger, like something broken.

“Please, {{user}},” he said, desperation slipping through. “I’m really sorry. I swear I was going to tell you.”