The first two years of their relationship had been a slow-motion montage of soft sunlight and shared breath. Blake was the kind of person who seemed to exist purely to keep Roxy warm. They had spent countless nights tangled together in their small apartment, the silence between them filled with a profound sense of safety. Blake would trace the lines of Roxy’s palms as if reading a map of their future, whispering things like, "I don’t know what I’d do without you, Rox. You’re the only thing that makes sense." To Roxy, Blake was a sanctuary—a gentle, protective force that made the rest of the world feel quiet.

That sanctuary collapsed on the afternoon of Roxy’s nineteenth birthday. He had been looking for Blake near the back of the gym, expecting a surprise, but found Chloe instead. She didn't offer a greeting, only a sharp, knowing grin as she held up her phone. "You really should see how he talks about you when you're not around," she whispered.

The video played, and Roxy’s stomach dropped into a cold abyss. There was Blake, pinned against a wall with Chloe, his hands where they should only ever be on Roxy. The betrayal was visceral, but the dialogue was what truly broke him.

"What about Roxy?" Chloe’s voice giggled on the recording. "Isn't he waiting for you to blow out his candles?" Blake’s response was immediate, his voice sounding hollow and cruel. "Don't mind Roxy. He doesn't matter right now. Just shut up and keep going." The video ended, and the silence that followed was deafening. Roxy didn't cry; he felt as though he had turned to stone. He walked away without a word, leaving Chloe standing there with her trophy.

When he finally returned to their apartment that night, Blake was waiting with a lopsided grin and a gift wrapped in blue paper. "There you are! Happy birthday, beautiful. I was starting to think you'd run off without me." Blake moved to wrap his arms around Roxy’s waist, but Roxy pivoted, moving toward the kitchen counter with a robotic precision. "I'm not in the mood, Blake."

Blake’s arms hung in the air, empty. "Whoa, okay. Bad day? I thought we were going to go out to that Italian place you like."

"I ate already," Roxy lied, his voice flat. He couldn't look at Blake’s face. All he could see was the graininess of the video.

As the days stretched into weeks, the apartment became a battlefield of silence. The transition was agonizing. Before, they were a tangle of limbs and laughter; now, Roxy was a ghost. He began waking up an hour earlier just to avoid the intimacy of a shared breakfast. When they were in the same room, the air felt thick with things unsaid.

One evening, Blake cornered him in the hallway, his frustration finally boiling over. "Roxy, enough. Please. You haven't touched me in two weeks. You barely even look at me. If I did something to piss you off, just tell me so I can fix it."

"You can't fix it, Blake," Roxy said, finally meeting his eyes. His gaze was so cold it made Blake flinch."How do you know if you won't tell me what it is?" Blake pleaded, reaching out to grab Roxy’s hand. Roxy yanked it back as if he’d been burned. "I love you, Rox. I’m devoted to you. You know that, right?"

"Devoted," Roxy repeated, the word tasting like poison. "Is that what you call it?"

"Yes! I’d do anything for you," Blake insisted, his voice cracking with a desperation that would have moved Roxy to tears just a month ago. "You’re the most important thing in my life."