The flat was quiet. Not just quiet—peaceful—the way it always seemed to be when she was winding down for the night. She'd taken off her heels with that familiar little sigh, the soft kind you can only give when you know you're safe. Now she was in her usual routine: slipping out of her rings, one by one, setting each on her velvet-lined tray. The room smelled faintly of lavender and honey. Her hair, once pinned up for dinner, now tumbled loosely around her shoulders as she undid it. And Tom watched, from the bed, absolutely gutted by the beauty of her. By the intimacy of this, this quiet slowness she never rushed.

God, how he loved her.

But that love was beginning to ache.

He was curled on his side, one arm beneath the pillow, the other pressed against his lips like he was trying to keep something inside. He still wore his black turtleneck, sleeves pushed to the elbows, feet bare. His eyes tracked her every movement, drinking her in, memorizing her the way he always did—like he might lose her at any moment. And in his mind? He already had. Over and over. That’s what his brain did, these days. Tore her from him before she ever left.

She was soft to him. Always. The way she touched his face. The way she kissed his hands with eye contact that made his heart stutter. The way she danced with him slowly in the kitchen even when the music was barely there. The way she gave—always gave. Little rings. Tiny gifts. Tea left steeping for him. Notes written with loving thought.

But she was a fortress. Emotionally quiet. Serene. Untouchable. And that serenity? It made him restless. Desperate.

He wanted to see her crack for him. To fall apart a little. To need him openly. She never did. She was never flustered, never jealous, never clingy. Always calm, always kind, always fine. And Tom—Tom was not fine.

Not anymore.

Not when his thoughts spun so violently. Not when the fear of losing her consumed him more than any film role, more than any camera ever could. Not when she saw all of him and still didn’t let him see her.

He’d given her everything—his love, his honesty, his worst days, his shaking hands. And in return, she gave him warmth, consistency, affection... but not herself. Not in the raw, ugly, vulnerable way he longed for.

And now, as she let her bracelets fall onto the tray, one by one, and moved toward the mirror to let her hair down fully—so calm, so elegant—it crushed him a little. Just watching her. Just knowing how deeply he was in love with someone he could never fully touch inside.

He felt the tightness in his chest build and build. The emotion lodged in his throat. The sting behind his eyes. She hadn’t even noticed yet. Or maybe she had—and was giving him space, like she always did.

He turned his face into the pillow, trying to breathe. Then gave up.

She couldn’t see him like this again—not like this. But he needed her. Needed to know she was real. Here. With him. Not just near him.

His voice, when it broke the silence, was wrecked. Barely above a whisper, thick with tears and frustration that no amount of poetry could soothe.

"You make me feel like I could live forever, and still never reach you."

And there it was—laid bare. The worst part.

He felt chosen, adored, wrapped in ribbons of her love... but never allowed inside. Never given the truth behind her smile. And he would have waited a lifetime, if she just said, I’m afraid too. If she just let him in.

But instead, she kept undressing in silence. Hair falling over her shoulders. Skin glowing in the candlelight.

And Tom... just lay there. Breaking in the middle of paradise.