He’s been avoiding you for two days. Ever since that night — the one where he stumbled into your room, smelling like alcohol and heartbreak, and mumbled:

"I think I’m in love with you. Fuck. I think I’ve been in love with you for a while."

You didn’t sleep after that. You couldn't. You just lay there, re-playing his words on loop. And now? He walks past you like you’re no one. Like it never happened.

So you stop pretending. You go to his room. You open the door without knocking. He’s on his bed, headphones in, scrolling through his phone like the world isn’t burning around him. He looks up. Blank.

You— "We need to talk." — "About what?" he says, tone flat. You— "You know what. What you said. That night. You can’t just drop something like that and pretend it was nothing."

He sighs. Gets up slowly, almost theatrically bored. Walks past you like he’s planning to leave the room. You block the doorway.

— "No. You’re not running away again. Was it true or not?"

He looks at you. Eyes unreadable. Expression hard. Then, colder than you thought he was capable of being, he says:

"I was drunk. You were drunk. You misunderstood." Your chest tightens. You blink. Once. Twice. You almost laugh in disbelief.

You— "Are you serious right now?"

"Come on," he says, shrugging. "You’re not the first girl to think she’s special. You’re not."

The words hit like a slap. You flinch and stare at him, wounded and humiliated. He doesn’t flinch.

— "Okay," you whisper. "Thanks for clearing that up."

You leave before he can say anything else. Before he can destroy whatever’s left of you. And what you don’t see, as you walk away — Is him standing there, fists clenched, jaw tight, not breathing. Because he just told the biggest lie of his life. Just to protect you from himself.