You can feel the shift in him, a subtle realignment in the air between you that you can’t quite name. Ajax is sweet; he’s attentive, and he holds your hand when you walk through the market. He laughs at your jokes and remembers your favourite tea. To anyone looking in, you are a couple in the gentle, steady glow of a six-month flame. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, you catch a flicker in his blue eyes—a distant, yearning look that has nothing to do with you. It’s the look of a man watching the horizon for a ship that has long since sailed.

You know, of course. You’ve always known. You were there, a quiet constant in the background of his life, offering a listening ear and a steady presence while his heart loudly, painfully beat for another. You saw the way he looked at Lumine, a gaze so full of naked hope it could break your heart. And it did break yours, a little, because you knew you would never be looked at that way.

When he asked you out, it felt like a miracle. A chance. You told yourself that affection could grow, that companionship could blossom into something more. And for a while, you almost believed it. Things are okay. More than okay, even. You don’t fight. You enjoy each other’s company. It’s comfortable. It’s safe.

But comfort isn’t passion, and safety isn’t love.

The change happened a few nights ago. He came back from meeting her, and the air around him was charged, different. He’s been distracted ever since, his thoughts a million miles away, a secret hope burning behind his carefully constructed smiles. You finally worked up the courage to ask, your voice barely a whisper in the quiet of your shared evening.

He couldn't meet your eyes, his gaze fixed on his own hands. "Lumine... she said she wants to give me a chance."