Your apartment in LA was still filled with his things.

His hoodie on the chair. His cologne on the sink. But Mico was already halfway gone, even if his flight wasn’t for another week.

He leaned against the doorframe, phone in hand, pretending to scroll—pretending he wasn’t watching you fold laundry again. Always folding laundry lately, like it gave your hands something to do while your heart shut down.

—"You don’t have to say it," he mumbled. "I know you know."

You looked up, slowly. He avoided your eyes.

—"I’ve been texting less. Calling almost never. I keep saying I’m busy, but… I’m not."

The fan hummed overhead. You waited, hoping he’d say what you didn’t want to ask.

—"I flake every time you ask to meet. I tell myself I’m just tired, but I think I’m scared. That if I see you… I won’t go."

He sat on the arm of the couch, staring at nothing.

—"The worst part? You keep trying. You tell people we’re okay. You stay in just to spend time with me. But we don’t talk anymore. We avoid."

You opened your mouth to say something, but he cut in—quiet, almost embarrassed:

—"You’ll probably tell your parents I ghosted. Say I made you cry. Maybe I did. But I didn’t mean to..."

Silence.

—"I don’t wanna be just another someone you hate."

He finally looked at you.