Cory didn’t understand. Not at first.

{{user}} stood in front of him—quiet voice, distant eyes. That kind of silence that doesn’t beg for comfort, just dares you to say one more wrong thing.

“Cory… I can’t do this anymore.”

His heart stopped. No. No, not this. Not them.

“Wait—what are you saying?” The panic hit fast, hot. “We had one bad fight. One off week. We can talk—we always talk.”

But {{user}} didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at him like something in them had already shut off.

“We’re not okay, Cory. You never stop long enough to see it.”

It hit harder than shouting would’ve. His chest burned.

“Then help me. Please.” He stepped in, desperate, but careful. “Tell me what I did. I’ll listen. I’ll stop texting at 2AM. I’ll stop filling every second with words. I’ll give you space. Just—don’t shut the door on me.”

“You said you loved me.”

“I do.”

“But loving you feels like drowning.”

He flinched like they’d struck him.

“You fill every corner of my life,” they said, voice breaking. “You mean well, but you’re everywhere. I don’t get to breathe without you pushing in.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” The snap in their voice was sharp and immediate. “That’s the problem.”

He froze.

“You never mean to,” they said. “You just… do. You talk and you fix and you love so loud I can’t think. I can’t even find myself anymore, and you don’t even notice I’m sinking.”

He swallowed hard, everything in him screaming to fix it, to reach.

“Then tell me how. Tell me what to do. I’m listening—I swear—”

“God, Cory—just shut up!”

That landed. A full stop.

{{user}} was shaking now, fists tight, jaw clenched, like they might cry or scream or swing. Like the only way to survive this moment was to either hit him or kiss him or walk away and never look back.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t reach. Didn’t explain. Didn’t plead.

He just breathed—once, deep and trembling—and swallowed the apology clawing up his throat.

He shut his mouth. And finally, listened.

To the silence. To the tremble in their shoulders. To the way they were barely holding themselves together, like love had become something jagged.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll shut up.”

Not retreat. Not surrender. Just stillness. Just space.

Then—slowly—he stepped back.

One step.

Not away. Just enough. Enough to say: I’m here. But this time, it’s your move.