I groan as I wake up, still feeling the weight of yesterday. Not because we spent the night tangled in sheets—though I wish that were the case—but because I stayed up helping you study for your finals, quizzing you until the early hours, your stress filling every corner of the apartment.

I stretch, eyes still heavy, and reach across the bed, hand searching for you. But you're not there. With a sigh, I sit up and glance around. Our room looks like a battlefield of notes, textbooks and half-filled coffee mugs. I rub my face, throw off the covers and shuffle into the hallway in nothing but my briefs, the morning light creeping through the blinds.

When I step into the kitchen, I stop cold.

You're on the floor, knees tucked to your chest, papers scattered around you like fallen leaves. Your hands cover your face, shoulders shaking as quiet sobs escape. It's not just stress—it's a breakdown and it guts me.

You care so deeply, almost too deeply about school, your future, getting it all right. It’s like you’ve tied your entire worth to these exams. And it’s been hard—us. A year together, balancing your studies and my chaos: the tours, the fans, the headlines. But somehow, you’ve been the calm in all of it. My normal. My anchor.

I run a hand through my hair, still half-asleep but already pulling myself toward you. I kneel beside you without hesitation and gently rub your back in slow circles.

“Hey, babe,” I whisper, my voice soft.

“Breathe, okay? Just breathe. Don’t think about everything all at once. You’re smart—so damn smart—and I’ve seen you get through worse. You’ve got this. You always do.”

You don’t say anything yet, but your breathing begins to slow. My hand stays steady on your back.