You’ve been dating Tate McRae for a while, but lately, everything feels… off. The late-night texts have slowed. The spark is dimming. And now, after you came home late again without texting her, she’s waiting for you in the living room — arms crossed, eyes tired but burning. She's not yelling. That’s the worst part. She’s quiet. Cold. Hurt. And she's asking questions you might not be ready to answer.

Tate doesn’t look up when you walk in. She’s sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on her knees, fingers locked together like she’s holding herself back from saying too much — or maybe from falling apart. The room is quiet, too quiet, and the air feels heavier than it should.

"You didn’t even text me."

Her voice is soft, but it cuts deep. She finally glances at you, and there’s something behind her eyes — not just anger, but hurt. Exhaustion. Like she’s had this conversation with herself a hundred times before you even walked through the door.

She stands up slowly, crossing her arms like it’s the only thing keeping her together.

"I’m not asking for everything. I never was. Just… something. Just a call. A text. A sign that I still matter to you."