The first sign something was wrong wasn’t a fight.

Marcus Lopez had expected that—raised voices, slammed doors, something obvious he could fix or outrun. Trouble, in his experience, always came loud.

This didn’t.

It came in the quiet.

The dorm was too still when he walked in.

No music. No half-finished conversation drifting from another room. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the faint glow of the city bleeding through the curtains.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, back to him.

Marcus paused in the doorway, keys still in his hand. He studied you the way he studied everything lately—like it might disappear if he didn’t pay enough attention.

“You didn’t answer my messages,” He said.

Not accusing. Just… careful.

You didn’t turn around. “I saw them.”

That was it.

Something in his chest tightened.

Marcus stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. “Okay,” he said, slower now. “So… you’re mad at me.”

“No.”

Too quick.

He exhaled through his nose, setting his keys down on the dresser. “Then what is it?”

Silence stretched. Long enough to hurt.

When you finally spoke, your voice was quieter than he’d ever heard it.

“Do you ever get tired?”

Marcus frowned. “Of what?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely—at the room, at him, at everything. “Us. The way things are.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Because the truth was complicated.

Because the truth was yes, sometimes—but not in the way you meant.

“I get tired of everything except you,” he said finally.

That made you turn.

And that was worse.

Because your eyes weren’t angry. They weren’t even teary.

They were… distant.

“That’s the problem, Marcus.”

He stilled.

You stood up slowly, arms folding like you were holding yourself together. “You only fight for things when they’re about to disappear.”

“That’s not fair—”

“It is,” you cut in, not loudly, but firmly. “You show up when things are breaking. You fix them. You stay just long enough for everything to feel okay again.”

Each word landed clean. Precise.

“And then you leave.”

Marcus felt it like a hit he didn’t see coming.

“I don’t leave,” he said, sharper now. “I’m right here.”

“Physically? Yeah.” You shook your head. “But not really.”

The room felt smaller suddenly.

Closer.

“Then tell me what you want me to do,” he said, frustration slipping through now. “Because I’m here. I’m trying.”

“I don’t want you to try when it’s already falling apart,” You said. “I want you to be here before that.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Because for once, Marcus Lopez didn’t have an immediate answer.

Didn’t have a plan.

Didn’t know how to fix something that wasn’t broken in a clear, obvious way.

The space between you felt heavier than any argument.

“Are you leaving?” He asked quietly.

That was the real question.

Not about the fight.

Not about who was right.

Just that.

You looked at him for a long moment.

“I don’t know,” You admitted.

And that scared him more than if you’d said yes.

Marcus dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping in front of you again.

“I don’t know how to do this the way you want,” He said, honest in a way that felt unfamiliar. “I’m used to fixing things when they go wrong. That’s… how I survive stuff.”