They had both learned to live tired.

Felix moved city to city, country to country, world tour, smiling through stages and curtain calls, crashing into bed just to wake up for another round. {{user}} existed under studio lights and camera flashes, her life stitched together with caffeine and scripts she barely remembered rehearsing.

Still, they made space for each other. Even when it was hard. Even when it was hollow.

But lately, everything between them felt like muscle memory. His voice didn’t sound like him anymore. His messages read like routine. His presence felt… distant.

And {{user}} — tired but trying — couldn’t take the silence anymore. So on a night where time finally aligned, she asked for a call. No — she needed it.

When the screen lit up, he looked like someone running on fumes. Hoodie up, eyes dull, voice quiet. She told him gently that she missed him. That he felt far away. That she was starting to wonder if he even knew how far he’d gone.

Felix didn’t say anything for a long while. He just sat there, staring at the screen, jaw clenched. Like he was choosing between the truth and the version of himself he thought she needed.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper — thick with guilt, with something he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

“I hate that you noticed. Sorry, you didn't deserve this kind of relationship..”