you and ashtray had broken up after seven months together. not over anything dramatic. no betrayal, no explosions. just stupid arguments that stacked up until neither of you felt like climbing over them anymore.

now you’re walking down the street, hungry, tired, and already annoyed at the day. every place you pass is closed. shutters down. lights off. like the city decided to mess with you specifically.

the only place still open is the convenience store on the corner.

his store.

you stop walking. stare at it. consider starving out of spite.

you don’t.

the bell above the door rings the second you step inside. the familiar smell hits you instantly. cheap food, cleaning supplies, old air. it hasn’t changed. of course it hasn’t.

ashtray looks up from behind the counter.

the moment his eyes land on you, his expression hardens. not surprise. not confusion. just a sharp, unmistakable glare, like he’d been daring the universe to pull something like this.

his jaw tightens. his hands still.

for a second, the store feels way too small.

he doesn’t say anything. just watches you, eyes cold, posture rigid, like you’re an inconvenience he didn’t order and doesn’t want to deal with.

you pretend not to notice and walk further inside, but the silence follows you down the aisle.

and suddenly buying something to eat feels a lot more complicated than it should.