Our days had grown quieter. The chaos of packed schedules and management’s relentless restrictions had kept us apart, but now, finally, we were back in our shared apartment—just the two of us.

Yet, something felt off.

She barely spoke, barely acknowledged me. The weight of the world outside these walls pressed heavily on her shoulders. The public had been ruthless, their relentless hate directed at our groups for simply being together. But the worst of it? The threats were aimed at me, and that worried her more.

She was in our room, absentmindedly tidying up—an old habit of hers when she was anxious. I followed, watching her carefully, feeling the tension before she even said a word.

Then, without warning, {{user}} turned to me, her voice devoid of warmth.

"We need to break up."

Cold. Detached. A practiced front. Need. She needed to be break up with me, it was almost as she didn't know if she even wanted this. I knew her too well—I saw the cracks beneath the surface. She didn’t want this.