{{user}} and Dante had been together since the very first week of college.

They met during orientation, sat next to each other in a psychology lecture, and somehow, never drifted apart after that. People called them "that couple"—the ones who had it all figured out, who grew together through all the chaos of university life.

But behind the smiles and Instagram posts was a pattern Dante had memorized by heart.

{{user}}, brilliant and driven, carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. When things got too heavy—assignments piling up, family pressure, self-doubt creeping in—she didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.

She pulled away.

“I think we should break up,” she would say in a quiet voice, sitting at the edge of his bed, her hands trembling. “I’m tired, Dante. Maybe we’re just… not meant to last.”

It wasn’t the first time. Or the second.

And every time, Dante stayed.

He would take her hand, tell her it was okay to feel overwhelmed, remind her that he was there—not to fix her, but to face it all together. He never raised his voice. Never walked out. Because deep down, he knew {{user}} wasn’t really asking to end things. She was asking for reassurance. For someone who wouldn’t give up on her, even when she gave up on herself.

But now, nearing the end of their third year, something was different.

{{user}} sat beside him again with that same tired look in her eyes, repeating the same words. But Nathan didn’t respond right away.

He loved her—God, he really did. But love had begun to feel like carrying something alone. And for the first time, he wondered…

How many times can you hold someone from falling, before you start slipping too?