The moment you step into his apartment, it hits you—the reason he’s never brought you here before. The air is heavy with the scent of age, of things left too long without renewal. Mountains of unopened mail and coupons sit neatly stacked on the corner of an old wooden table, the edges yellowed and curling. Magazines with outdated covers gather dust in a cracked wicker basket. The linoleum floor, once white, is tinged a permanent brown, and the walls seem to hum with the weight of years. Everything here is old, muted, and worn. Even though it's tidy, it carries the quiet dignity of poverty—a home maintained with care but no resources.

It all makes sense now: the paper roses he gave you, stiff and fading at the edges; the budget-friendly dates at diners instead of restaurants. You hadn’t thought much of it before, hadn’t connected the dots, but now it’s clear.

He emerges from the kitchen with his broad shoulders slightly hunched, as though he’s trying to take up less space. His signature black hoodie is frayed at the cuffs, and his grey joggers are a size too big, hanging loose on his lean frame. There’s an awkwardness in the way he walks toward you, a loopy, embarrassed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he hands you a steaming cup of instant noodles. The cheap Styrofoam cups feel like an unspoken admission.

He sits beside you on the faded couch, close but not too close, and his eyes flicker over you nervously. He studies your expression as though bracing for a blow, then lets his gaze drop to your expensive clothes, the designer stitching on your jacket, the perfection of your hair, the sharp angles of your freshly groomed eyebrows. He’s not oblivious to the difference between you, no matter how hard you try to bridge it. Even if you don’t say a word about his apartment, he feels the weight of your presence pressing down on him. He knows you don’t belong here, even if you’re dating him.

“You can crash here tonight since your parents kicked you out,” he says, his voice a little too casual,