a/n: guys I have been working on this for the past couple of days and just wanted to get it right 😭 this was a lovely recommendation from someone I CANT REMEMBER WHO SO PLEASE COMMENT so please enjoy my babagrills
Warnings: angst 💔, emotional distance
The internet broke the morning Anthony posted his announcement video.
You sat beside him on the couch while he edited, the glow of his laptop screen catching the edges of his hair. He looked focused, jaw tight, shoulders stiff with a weight you couldn’t take from him, no matter how much you wished you could.
“I don’t want to sugarcoat it,” he muttered, scrubbing back through the footage. His own voice filled the room, tired but steady: “I need to do what’s best for me, and that means moving on from Smosh…”
Your chest ached hearing it again, even though you’d been listening to different cuts of this video for hours. You knew how much this hurt him, Smosh wasn’t just a job. It was his childhood dream, the thing he and Ian had built from scratch.
“Anthony,” you said softly, laying your hand on his knee. “You don’t have to get it perfect. People are going to feel it either way.”
He stopped, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes like he could force back the sting. “They’re going to hate me. Everyone’s going to think I’m betraying them.”
You shifted closer, wrapping an arm around him, letting his head fall against your shoulder. “Some will. But the people who really care about you? They’ll understand. And they’ll still have you. We’ll still share little pieces of us. It’s not like you’re disappearing.”
The truth was, you’d both already had the conversation about keeping your relationship public. You weren’t a secret anymore, Instagram photos, cameos in vlogs, the occasional Q&A where he smiled too wide when your name came up. Fans clung to those moments, and honestly, so did you. If Smosh was ending for him, at least this wasn’t.
When the video finally went up, Anthony curled into you on the couch, his phone buzzing endlessly on the coffee table. Mentions piled up, heartbreak flooding in. But mixed among them were messages of love. People telling him they’d follow him anywhere. People thanking him for the years he gave them.
You kissed the crown of his head, whispering, “See? They still believe in you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Anthony tilted his head up, eyes glossy but soft. “Promise?”
And later that night, when he finally posted a picture of the two of you with his arm tight around your waist, your smile pressed into his shoulder.
The fans went wild, and for the first time that day, you saw him smile without forcing it.
The weeks after his announcement everything blurred into a strange haze.
Anthony stayed home more, but he wasn’t really there. He’d vanish into his office for hours, tinkering with video ideas, half-written outlines, and endless notes scattered across his desk. Premiere was always open, looping through rough cuts for his channel, as if he was trying to edit his way into something that felt right.
You’d knock on the door sometimes, balancing a mug of tea in your hand.
“Hey,” you’d say gently. “You’ve been in here all day. Want to take a walk with me?”
He wouldn’t even look up, just drag a hand through his hair and mutter, “Not right now. I-I just need to figure this out.”
At first, you gave him space. You knew what this was: grief. Smosh had been his life for over a decade. Losing it wasn’t just a career shift; it was like ripping out a piece of himself.
But as days stretched into weeks, that space grew cavernous. Even when you were in the same room, it felt like you were watching him through glass.
One night, you found him sitting in the dark on the couch, his phone dim in his hand. You flicked on the lamp, and he winced at the light.
“Anthony,” you whispered, kneeling in front of him. “Talk to me. Please.”
His jaw worked, like he was chewing on words too bitter to say. Finally, he rasped, “I don’t even know who I am without Smosh.”
Your heart broke. You reached for his hands, but he pulled them back, clutching them against his chest.
“I love you,” you told him, voice trembling, “but I can’t help if you won’t let me in.”
He shook his head, eyes shiny. “I don’t want you to fix me. I just… I need space. I need to figure out who I am on my own before I drag you down with me.”
That was the first time you realized how scared he was- not of the future, but of losing himself so completely that he might lose you too.
So you let him take that step back. You still showed up, dropping off meals at his desk, leaving little notes on his monitor, posting pictures where he smiled, even if the smiles were rare. To the fans, you were still “Anthony and Y/N,” still solid. But privately, you felt him slipping further away, and all you could do was hope he’d find his way back before the distance swallowed you both.
Smosh just didn’t feel the same without him. The sets were still colorful, the sketches still loud and chaotic, but every time you looked over at Ian’s side of the table, the empty space beside him hurt. Anthony’s chair was gone, replaced with a rotating lineup of cast members, but you saw it anyway, like a phantom limb the channel couldn’t quite learn to live without.
You kept your head down, working on scripts, schedules, little behind-the-scenes fires that needed putting out. To everyone else, you were just part of the machine that kept Smosh running. But in quiet moments, your phone would buzz with a text from Anthony.
maybe we can do dinner later?
At first, that was enough. You’d finish up at the office, drive home, and find him waiting, maybe even sometimes cooking, or curled up on the couch, looking like he hadn’t moved all day. You’d kiss him, and for a few hours, it felt like things were okay.
But slowly, the cracks began to show.
Some nights you’d come home to silence, the apartment dark except for the glow of his monitor. He’d be hunched forward, headphones on, deep in editing something he’d never actually upload. When you touched his shoulder, he’d flinch like you’d pulled him out of another world.
“Anthony,” you’d murmur, trying to keep your voice soft. “You promised we’d eat together tonight.”
“I know, I just-“ he tugged off his headphones, raking a hand through his hair. “I lost track of time. I need to finish this before I forget what I’m even doing.”
And you’d nod, because you didn’t want to be the reason he unraveled further.
But the distance grew. At Smosh, you were surrounded by people laughing, making chaos, trying to keep Defy happy. At home, it felt like you were tiptoeing around someone who was fading right in front of you.
The worst part wasn’t the fights, it was the quiet. The way he’d shut down when you asked if he wanted to come to set, just to visit. The way he’d watch Smosh uploads without saying anything, his mouth tight, his eyes unreadable.
One night, when you finally asked, “Do you hate that I’m still there?” he froze.
His lips parted, but no words came out. And that silence was louder than anything he could’ve said.
It happened on a Tuesday night, just after you’d dragged yourself home from another grueling day at the Smosh office. Defy was squeezing the life out of the team, deadlines tightening, sketches being churned out faster than anyone could keep up. You were exhausted, but when you walked through the door and saw Anthony sitting on the couch, no laptop, no headphones, just sitting.. your stomach dropped.
He looked like he’d been rehearsing.
“Hey,” you said, setting your bag down, your voice tentative.
“Can we talk?” His tone was flat, but his hands fidgeted restlessly in his lap.
Your heart started pounding. “Of course.”
You sat beside him, close enough that your knees brushed, but he didn’t lean into you the way he normally did. He kept staring at the floor, eyes shadowed, jaw tight.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said finally, voice breaking halfway through.
For a second, you thought he meant Smosh. Even though he’d left, you knew how much it still haunted him. “Do what?” you asked, trying to give him an opening.
He looked up at you then, and the devastation in his eyes made your throat close. “Us.”
The word hit like a knife.
“What are you talking about?” Your voice cracked. “Anthony, no. You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” He dragged both hands through his hair, pulling at it like he could tear the words out by force. “I love you, I do, but I’m… I’m broken, Y/N. I thought leaving Smosh would fix me, but it didn’t. I’m still… lost. And it’s not fair to you.”
You reached for his hand, desperate, but he pulled back like the contact burned. “You don’t have to do this alone. I want to be here for you. You don’t have to push me away.”
His voice cracked as he nearly shouted, “But I am pushing you away! Every day, I’m shutting you out, and I can see what it’s doing to you.” His chest heaved, his eyes wet. “I can’t keep dragging you through my mess. You deserve more than this… more than me right now.”
Tears blurred your vision. “So what, you’re just- what, walking away? After everything?”
His silence was answer enough.
The breakup wasn’t clean. You cried, begged, argued. He broke down too, whispering apologies between sobs, telling you how much he wished he could be better for you. But in the end, his decision was firm. He needed space, solitude, a chance to heal without hurting you more.
That night, you left his apartment with a box of your things and a hole in your chest.
The silence online was deafening.
No more candid photos. No little comments under each other’s posts. Fans noticed quickly, threads on Reddit and Twitter speculating, dissecting your absence from each other’s feeds. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
But every time you scrolled past an old picture of the two of you smiling, carefree you felt the ache all over again. And somewhere, you hoped he did too.
The breakup left a silence in its wake, one that buzzed louder than any screaming set or clattering camera.
You filled it the only way you knew how, by working.
Days blurred into nights at the office. You drowned yourself in scripts, production schedules, the endless cycle of chaos that kept Smosh alive even as the company pulled tighter on its leash. Every spare minute was a distraction. If you kept moving, kept doing, maybe you wouldn’t have to feel the jagged edges of the loss tearing at you.
No calls. No late-night texts. No accidental “thinking of you” slip-ups. He’d meant what he said he couldn’t keep you tethered to his pain, so he’d cut the cord completely.
The first week, you kept your phone close, convincing yourself he’d reach out, that maybe he’d realize he made a mistake. The second week, you stopped hoping. By the end of the month, the silence wasn’t a shock anymore, it was just a weight.
The fans kept speculating, reading between captions, scouring for traces of you in his orbit. You stayed quiet, pretending not to see, forcing yourself to smile in behind-the-scenes shots, to laugh when cameras rolled. On-screen chaos became your armor.
But at night, when the sets emptied and the laughter faded, you’d sit at your desk, staring at the flickering cursor on yet another script, and feel the ache settle heavy in your chest.
Anthony wasn’t coming back. So you forced yourself to keep moving because what else was there to do?
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