𖥻 ִ ۫ ּ 　jeje　𓂃

Now Listening to… Slow Dancing In The Dark • Joji

Tag list: @labyrinthinely @coerphia @1luvvcats @wgucigu @hrts4pepsi @letd8wn

Martin was easy to pick out in a crowd. Not only because of his height, but because of the way he carried himself. He’d always get in trouble for wearing the wrong shoes during gym class—not because he forgot he had gym that day, but because he’d willingly choose to wear leather platform shoes instead. When he showed up to school one day with bleached hair and eyebrows, half the boys—and even some of the girls—started bleaching theirs too. It took about a month before everyone finally moved on.

Martin never tried to be cool. Never forced that detached, effortless persona everyone else seemed so desperate to master.

He was just… loud.

Loud in the way he laughed with his whole chest. Loud in the way he’d greet almost everyone by name in the hallway. Loud in the way he somehow made every person around him feel noticed.

Maybe that was why you fell for him.

Martin was popular among girls—not in the player kind of way. He wasn’t known for jumping from relationship to relationship or leading people on. Most girls liked him because he was genuinely easy to be around. Sure, he was handsome, but it was the way he treated people that made them gravitate toward him. For someone like Martin, his dating history was surprisingly short. The relationship people talked about the most was with a girl named Hanna.

Hanna was gorgeous. She was tall and slim, with long, silky black hair and a face that looked like it had been sculpted by angels. Everyone thought she was the perfect match for Martin.

They lasted nearly a year. Then, out of nowhere, Hanna missed school for a few days. When she came back, they were never seen together again. Neither of them ever talked about what happened, and eventually, people stopped asking. Rumors came and went, but no one really knew the truth. Maybe no one ever would.

Long story short, Martin was the complete opposite of you.

You remembered exactly how the two of you got close. It started with little things.

“Hey, can I borrow a pencil?”

“Do you have an eraser?”

Sometimes he’d ask for a sheet of loose-leaf paper while a perfectly good notebook sat open on his desk, its pages completely blank. You always noticed, but you handed him the paper anyway.

You weren’t very talkative, but Martin always found a way to keep a conversation going. He’d complain about homework, make a joke about the teacher, or point out something happening across the classroom. You always assumed he was just being nice. Maybe he felt bad for the quiet girl who rarely spoke unless someone spoke to her first.

Now, ten months later, you were standing outside his front door, smoothing down your shirt before ringing the doorbell.

Tonight was family dinner.

Martin had met your parents the week before. Now it was your turn.

Things between the two of you were serious. Ten months together had somehow flown by, and you’d loved every second of it. People still did double takes whenever they saw the two of you walking through the halls together.

You were nothing like Hanna.

Of course, you were pretty in your own way, but you weren’t loud or effortlessly outgoing like she was. You weren’t popular either. Most people barely noticed you walking into a room.

Martin always did. And somehow, that was enough.

You took one last deep breath before ringing the doorbell with one hand, while holding a container of homemade brownies in the other. You were nervous, more than you’d like to admit. Although you probably had nothing to be nervous about, the whole experience was still nerve-racking. You had never introduced yourself to a guy’s parents before. You were worried about saying the wrong thing or maybe, deep down, you were just afraid of them not approving of you.

Martin opened the door, and his face softened when he saw you.

“Hi, pretty,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You smiled at him and held out the container. “I brought brownies,” you said, your voice coming out shorter than you intended, immediately giving away your nervousness.

Martin, of course, laughed softly because he noticed. He always noticed everything.

“Thank you. I’m sure they’ll taste great,” he said as he stepped aside to let you in.

The warmth from inside hit you immediately.

It smelled like garlic, butter, and something sweet baking in the oven. Family photos lined the hallway, some newer than others, and a pair of shoes had been kicked off by the staircase like someone had forgotten to put them away.

“Ma!” Martin called out, dramatically announcing your arrival. “Y/N is here!”

A woman appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.

“Oh, finally.”

She walked over without hesitation and wrapped you in a hug.

“It’s so nice to meet you properly. Martin wouldn’t stop talking about you after meeting your parents.”

“It’s so nice meeting you too,” you said with a polite smile. “Is there anything I can help with in the kitchen?”

“Ah, no, but thank you, dear,” Martin’s mom said as she walked toward the dining table, where Martin’s dad was already sitting. “We were just waiting for you,” she finished.

As you finished introducing yourself to Martin’s dad, a girl who looked a few years older than you jogged down the stairs.

She looked enough like Martin that you would’ve known they were related without anyone telling you.

“Oh my god. So this is the one and only Y/N.”

She said it with a smile before pulling you into a hug.

“I’m Emma. This big bum’s sister.”

You smiled.

“He won’t stop talking about you. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“Can everyone stop exposing me?” Martin said jokingly.

Dinner started not long after.

Conversation came easily. Martin’s dad had a story for everything, his mom somehow managed to keep everyone’s plates full without sitting down for more than five minutes, and Emma talked enough for everyone at the table combined.

You found yourself relaxing.

It wasn’t nearly as intimidating as you’d expected.

Emma reached across the table for the salt before looking at Martin.

“Do you still own those awful platform shoes?”

Martin didn’t even look up from his plate.

“Obviously.”

“I still can’t believe your gym teacher let you play basketball in those.”

“He didn’t.”

“He got detention.”

“I know.”

Emma laughed.

“Hanna used to tell him they made him look taller.”

Martin looked up.

“I was already tall.”

“I’m just saying.”

“They looked ridiculous.”

His dad chuckled.

“They really did.”

Martin shook his head.

The conversation drifted somewhere else before you had time to think too much about it. It wasn’t strange, just a memory.

A few minutes later, Martin’s mom stood up to refill everyone’s drinks.

Emma followed her into the kitchen.

Now it was just Martin, his dad, and you. It was a little quiet, so Martin’s dad cleared his throat before speaking.

“So Hanna…” he said confidently.

Before you even had the chance to correct him, Martin did.

“It’s Y/N, Dad.”

“Oh—of course. I’m so sorry,” he said, looking genuinely embarrassed. “Old habit.”

You shook your head with a small smile.

“Don’t even worry about it. Really, it’s no big deal.”

Martin looked over at you for a second, almost checking if you meant it. You gave him a reassuring smile, and after a brief pause, the conversation naturally moved on.

The rest of dinner passed by easily. Between Emma’s endless stories, Martin’s parents asking you about school, and Martin occasionally teasing you under the table, the nerves you’d walked in with slowly disappeared. Before you knew it, empty plates had been cleared away, and the evening had come to an end.

The drive home was quiet.

Not necessarily awkward—comfortable.

Martin kept one hand on the steering wheel while the other rested over yours on the center console, lazily tracing circles over your knuckles every now and then.

You looked out the window, thinking about how well the evening had gone. Martin’s family was welcoming and sweet, just like him. Still, you couldn’t get rid of the small aching feeling in your stomach.

Whenever they mentioned Hanna, it wasn’t as though they were talking about Martin’s ex. They spoke about her like she still belonged to the family. The way her name rolled off their tongues so effortlessly made you wonder if there was ever going to be a place for you in this house.

When he pulled up outside your house, neither of you rushed to move.

“So?” he asked, turning to look at you. “First impression?”

“I think they liked me.”

He laughed softly.

“I know they did.”

You unbuckled your seatbelt, reaching for the door handle, but before you could get out, Martin caught the hem of your shirt between his fingers, gently tugging you back. He leaned over the center console and pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, twirling a loose strand of your hair between his fingers.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

But it sounded more like you were trying to convince yourself than actually answering him.

Martin studied your face for a second.

“Talk to me.”

You looked down at your lap.

“It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

“…The way they talked about Hanna.” You laughed softly, though there wasn’t much humor behind it. “It just… felt like she still belonged there.”

He stayed quiet for a moment before reaching for your hand.

“She was part of my life for a while,” he admitted. “So, of course, my family has stories with her in them. But that’s all they are—stories.”

Your thumb traced small circles over the back of his hand.

“It just made me wonder if I’d ever fit in the way she did.”

Martin squeezed your hand.

“You don’t have to be Hanna to fit in,” he said. “I don’t want another Hanna. I want you.”

You gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Martin smiled, the kind that always managed to settle something inside you.

“you better.”

You laughed quietly, leaning back into the car for one final kiss before stepping out. The evening air was cool against your skin as you shut the door behind you. You gave him a small wave, waiting until he pulled away from the curb before turning toward your front door.

The moment you were inside, you kicked off your shoes and rested your forehead against the closed door.

You knew you were overthinking.

You knew it wasn’t fair.

Yet no matter how many times you replayed the afternoon in your head, your mind always wandered back to the same thing.

Hanna.

—

The next week went by normally.

At least, it looked normal.

You still saw Martin after school. You still spent hours talking about nothing, still stole his hoodies, still laughed at the stupid things he said. He was still the same person he’d always been with you.

But you weren’t.

It wasn’t something you noticed right away. It was small things at first.

You’d catch yourself going quiet whenever his family came up in conversation. When he’d tell you a story from before you knew him, your mind would automatically wonder if Hanna was there too. If she knew the people in those stories. If she fit into his life in a way you were still trying to figure out.

And you hated that you thought about it.

Because Martin had never given you a reason to feel that way.

He never compared you to her. He never made you feel like you were anything less than enough. If anything, he constantly reminded you that you were the person he chose.

But that didn’t stop the little thoughts from creeping in.

The way his family said her name so easily. The way they remembered her. The way it felt like she had left behind a place that was still waiting for her.

You started wondering if maybe you were trying to fit yourself into a space that had already belonged to someone else.

Maybe Hanna understood his family better.

Maybe she knew all the little things about him that you were still learning.

Maybe she just made more sense.

And even though you knew it wasn’t fair to Martin, you couldn’t stop comparing yourself to someone who wasn’t even there.

You didn’t pull away because you wanted to.

You just became a little quieter.

You stopped reaching for his hand first. You waited for him to ask what was wrong instead of telling him. You laughed when he made jokes, but sometimes your mind was somewhere else entirely.

Martin noticed.

At first, he thought you were just tired.

Then he noticed it kept happening.

The way you’d go quiet out of nowhere. The way you’d look at him like you wanted to say something but changed your mind. The way you kept saying you were fine a little too quickly.

By the end of the week, he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

You were sitting in his car after school, he was dropping you off at your house as usual.

Except this time, neither of you were talking.

Martin glanced over at you, his fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel.

“Okay,” he said.

You looked at him. “Okay what?”

He turned toward you.

“What’s going on?”

“About what?” you replied a little too quickly.

The answer came out too fast, too rehearsed. Even you could hear how forced it sounded.

Martin looked at you for a second, his expression softening.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

He pulled over, putting the car into park.

You sighed quietly.

You knew what pulling over meant.

It meant he wasn’t going to let the conversation disappear into silence. It meant you were going to have to say something—anything—even if it was just to tell him you were fine and hope he believed you.

“Can… can I ask you something?” you finally said, your voice quieter than you intended.

“Anything.”

He turned toward you fully now, giving you his complete attention.

You stared down at your hands, picking at your fingers.

“Why’d you break up with her?”

There was a pause.

“With Hanna, I mean.”

Martin’s expression changed slightly, not because he was upset, but because he finally understood where this was coming from.

“Oh, baby.”

His voice was quiet.

“This is it?”

You looked away.

“This is about her?”

“Please just answer.”

Martin stayed quiet for a moment, looking at you.

Not in an annoyed way. Not like he was trying to figure out why you were asking.

More like he was trying to figure out how long you had been carrying this around.

“She wasn’t a bad person,” he finally said.

You nodded slowly, your eyes still fixed on the window.

“I know.”

“And it wasn’t because I stopped caring about her.”

That made your chest tighten slightly.

“But…”

You looked at him.

Martin sighed softly, scratching the side of his jaw.

“Things just stopped feeling right.”

You swallowed.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that at some point, we weren’t really working anymore.” He paused. “We cared about each other, but that doesn’t always mean two people are meant to stay together.”

You looked down at your hands.

“She seemed like she fit, though.”

The words came out before you could stop them.

Martin’s eyebrows pulled together slightly.

“What?”

You let out a quiet breath, almost like a laugh, but there was nothing funny about it.

“Your family loves her. They talk about her like she’s still part of everything. She knows all these stories, all these little things about you.” Your voice became quieter. “I mean, she lived through the stories you just tell me about.”

“Y/N—”

“And I know it’s stupid,” you rushed out. “I know she’s your ex. I know you’re with me. I know that.”

You shook your head.

“But sometimes I feel like you should be with her instead of me.”

Martin’s expression softened.

You finally looked at him.

“She already knew you. She already had all these memories with you. She already fit into your life.” You paused. “And I’m just… trying to catch up.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than before.

Martin looked at you for a long moment before speaking.

“Do you really think that?”

You shrugged, looking away.

“I don’t know.”

“No,” he said gently. “Look at me.”

You hesitated before meeting his eyes.

“You think I’m with you because Hanna wasn’t enough?”

Your lips parted slightly.

“I think maybe you had something good,” you admitted. “And I don’t understand why you’d choose something new when you already had someone who belonged.”

Martin’s face softened, but there was sadness there too. This was never about Hanna. It was about you believing there was no way you could be chosen if someone else had already been there first.

Before you realized it, your eyes had started to fill with tears. The edges of your vision blurred, and you immediately blinked them away, wiping your face with the back of your hand before he could say anything.

You took a deep breath, forcing a small smile onto your face.

“It’s fine,” you said, breaking the silence.

“Can we go?”

Martin didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, studying the expression you were trying so hard to keep together.

“That’s it?”

You looked down, avoiding his gaze.

“I mean… you can’t apologize for your past, and you can’t erase it either.” You paused, swallowing the lump in your throat. “So let’s just leave it how it is.”

Martin was quiet for a moment, and you hated that you couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His eyebrows pulled together slightly.

“For what?”

You shrugged, looking down.

“For making this a bigger thing than it is.”

“You didn’t”

You didn’t answer.

“Y/N,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

You hesitated before doing so.

“You don’t have to pretend something doesn’t hurt just because you think you’re not supposed to feel that way.”

Your eyes burned again, but this time you didn’t wipe them away immediately.

“I just didn’t want you to think I was insecure.”

Martin shook his head slightly.

“I don’t.”

A small, sad smile crossed his face.

“I just wish you knew you never had to compete for me.”

Your throat tightened.

He squeezed your hand gently.

“Hanna was part of my life. That’s true. But so are you.”

You looked down at your intertwined hands, letting yourself breathe for the first time in days.

It didn’t erase the feeling completely. Maybe it wouldn’t disappear overnight.

But sitting there with him, you finally understood that you weren’t fighting for a place someone else had left behind.

You were building your own.

Tag list: @labyrinthinely @coerphia @1luvvcats @goonicorns-world @letd8wn

You had already been worried from the message James sent you. He never, ever texted you like this. "We need to talk. Can I come over?" Not that James was particularly fond of texting in the first place, but there was always something that made it sound like him. Extra letters dragged out for no reason, a nickname only he ever called you, maybe even an emoji if he was feeling especially annoying. Especially when it came to you. But this time there was none of that. Just a plain message that felt strangely distant, and somehow that worried you more than the words themselves.

You didn't want to let your nervousness take control of you, so you did your best to stay calm—or at least convince yourself you were. Which, apparently, meant pacing around your room in circles, checking his location every three counted seconds, and biting at the loose skin on your lip until it stung enough that it was probably bleeding by now. You didn't bother checking. You didn't really have the time, or maybe you just didn't care. So yes, you were calm. Partially. Because that's who you are. You don't panic, especially not over a man. And yes, you love James, more than you'd probably ever admit out loud, but what could possibly be so concerning after two years of a relationship that had always felt so solid? Or at least, that's what you kept repeating to yourself every time your stomach tightened for no reason you could explain.

When his location finally starts getting closer, you decide to make tea for the both of you, mostly because you need something to do with your hands. Maybe the routine would distract you. Maybe if you focused hard enough on boiling water and finding the mugs, the feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach would finally leave. It doesn't. Instead, your mind wanders right back to the last few weeks—how James had been moving your dates over and over again, how every excuse sounded believable enough that you never questioned it, and how somewhere along the way he'd stopped calling you all the little names that used to make you roll your eyes. He barely complimented you anymore either, which shouldn't have mattered, except it did. James used to find something nice to say about almost everything you did, no matter how small. You hadn't realized how much you'd miss it until it quietly disappeared.

The bubbling of the kettle finally pulls you back to the present, loud enough to interrupt the endless loop your thoughts had trapped themselves in. Before you can even pour the water, you hear a gentle knock at the door. You'd know that knock anywhere. James never knocked loudly, never rushed it, almost as if he expected you to recognize it before you even reached the door.

You take a slow breath, more out of habit than anything else, and turn off the stove before wrapping your fingers around the handle of the pot. You wet your lips, trying to ignore how dry they've become, and make your way toward the front door, telling yourself—one last time—that everything is probably fine. The thought barely makes it halfway through your head before you realize you don't believe it anymore.

As you open the door, the first thing that hits you is his face. James' face. To everyone else, it was always the same—calm, unreadable, almost mean if you didn't know him. But you did know him. You knew that the second he saw you, he'd usually smile just enough for those little whisker dimples to appear, the ones he pretended not to have whenever you pointed them out. They never failed to show up. Not this time, though. This time, you were greeted with the same expression everyone else got.

He looked exhausted.

Not the kind of tired a nap could fix, either. It looked like he'd been carrying something around for days, maybe weeks. Like he'd been thinking too much and sleeping too little. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, his shoulders sat lower than usual, and when he quietly stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click, the sigh that left him was enough to confirm what you already feared.

"I made some tea," you said, more because the silence was becoming unbearable than because he needed to know. He slipped his shoes off by the door before making his way into the kitchen without saying much. It was normal. It was what he always did whenever he came over. Somehow, though, even the familiar routine felt unfamiliar. "I didn't have time to make chai, so... I just made hibiscus tea." You hesitated, your voice shrinking towards the end. "...If that's okay."

"That's fine, yeah," he answered quietly as he pulled a chair away from the dining table.

The soft amber light above him—the one he'd always called your comfort lighting—fell across his face. Usually, he'd look up at it, grin, and launch into the same speech he'd given you at least twenty times.

"Don't ever change this orange light bulb."

You used to laugh because he sounded so serious every single time.

Tonight, he didn't even glance at it.

You couldn't stop noticing how awkward everything suddenly felt. It made no sense. This was James. The same James who had a drawer at your apartment because he kept forgetting hoodies there. The same James who knew where you kept the mugs better than your own parents did. The same James you'd spent two years loving so naturally that being around him had started feeling like breathing.

So why did it suddenly feel like two high schoolers sitting across from each other on an awkward first date, both waiting for the other person to say something first?

You carried the two cups over, setting one down in front of him before taking your usual seat across the table. You hadn't even thought about it anymore—it had simply become routine. A long time ago, you'd asked why he always insisted on sitting across from you instead of beside you, and without missing a beat he'd answered, "Because I like looking at your face more than your shoulder." Ever since then, neither of you had questioned it.

Tonight, though, for the first time, he barely looked at you at all.

James takes a small sip of the tea before mumbling something that sounds close enough to a thank you. His hands stay wrapped around the mug, eyes fixed on the steam rising from it instead of you. He isn't drinking it because he wants tea—you can tell. He's just giving himself something to do. Something to look at. As much as you don't want to think about where this is going, you can't stop yourself from knowing.

"What's wrong?" you ask.

The words come out quieter than you intended, almost like they're asking him not to say whatever he's about to say. You clear your throat, hoping to sound steadier the second time. He finally looks up at you.

"What was it that you wanted to talk about?"

"Listen, Y/N..." he starts, one hand rubbing the side of his face before dragging down to his jaw. He lets out a breath through his nose. "I know you've noticed... the way I've been treating you these past few weeks. I know it's been unfair. And... weird."

You don't let him finish.

"If it's about that, don't worry." The words come out too fast, almost tripping over each other. "I get it. You've been caught up with work, and we agreed not to depend on each other so much, remember?" A small smile finds its way onto your face, gentle enough to look convincing from the outside. You aren't smiling for him, though. You're smiling because if you stop, you think you might fall apart before he even gets the chance to explain.

His expression softens.

"I know," he says quietly. "I know, baby."

The nickname lands in your chest harder than it usually does.

He sighs, looking down into the tea before his eyes drift toward the warm lamp above the table—the same one he always insisted made your apartment feel like home. They linger there for a second before returning to you.

"It's just..." He pauses, swallowing. "It feels unfair, y'know?"

You don't answer.

The knot in your stomach has grown so heavy it feels like it's climbing into your chest now, squeezing around your ribs until taking a full breath almost hurts. Your hands stay folded in your lap, hidden beneath the table, your thumbnail absentmindedly dragging across the back of your other hand over and over until the skin turns pink.

James watches you for a moment before speaking again, quieter this time.

"...You see where I'm going?"

You nod.

It's small. Barely noticeable.

You keep your eyes on the angry little lines forming across the back of your hand because looking at him would make this real, and saying yes would mean admitting you already knew. Every bit of strength you have is being spent keeping your breathing steady, swallowing around the lump in your throat, convincing yourself that if you blink enough, the tears gathering in your eyes will somehow change their mind.

"I'm sorry."

James says it so gently that it almost hurts more than if he'd shouted. In the two years you'd been together, he had never once raised his voice at you. Not during disagreements, not when he was frustrated, not even when either of you were having the worst day imaginable. This was the voice you knew him for—the calm one, the careful one, the one that always seemed to know exactly how to comfort you. Somehow, hearing it now made your chest ache in a way it never had before.

"I really do love you. You know that, right?" He pauses, his eyes dropping for just a second before finding yours again. "I just... I don't know how to balance everything anymore. Work, all these responsibilities... and us. It feels like I'm constantly falling short somewhere."

"It's fine."

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. They're quieter than you meant them to be, weaker too, almost disappearing the second they're spoken. Your vision begins to blur as tears gather in your eyes, and you blink quickly, hoping they'll stay where they are.

They don't.

"Y/N... please don't cry."

His voice comes out a little more urgent this time as he pushes his chair back and kneels beside you. Instinctively, he reaches for you, but hesitates for the briefest moment, almost as if he isn't sure whether he still has the right to.

"You can't say that," you whisper, your voice breaking halfway through the sentence.

The first tear slips down before you can wipe it away. Then another.

"I'm sorry," you mumble, staring somewhere over his shoulder because you can't bear to look at him anymore. "I'm making this harder than it needs to be."

His face twists with something that looks painfully close to guilt.

Without another word, James gently pulls you to your feet and wraps his arms around you. You don't resist. You fold into him almost automatically, pressing your face into the side of his neck as if your body still hasn't realized what's happening. His scent is so painfully familiar that it almost makes you cry harder—laundry detergent, cedarwood, and whatever shampoo he'd been using for years. It smelled like every late-night drive, every movie you'd watched half asleep, every hoodie of his you'd accidentally stolen and never really gave back.

One of his hands settles against the back of your head, his fingers disappearing into your hair the way they always did whenever you were upset. The other rests between your shoulder blades, his thumb absentmindedly tracing slow circles through your shirt, muscle memory taking over even now.

Your hands, however, never move.

They stay curled against your own sides, fists tightening around the fabric of your pants until your knuckles ache. You don't hold onto him. You hold onto yourself instead, as if gripping the denim hard enough might stop the feeling that everything you've known for the last two years is quietly slipping through your fingers.

You stay there for longer than you'd like to admit. Your face stays buried in his neck, warm tears slowly soaking through the fabric of his shirt while James doesn't say a word. He simply lets you cry. One of his hands remains tangled in your hair, gently scratching your scalp every now and then, while the other continues tracing absentminded circles against your back, the same circles that had calmed you down after every stressful shift, every argument with your parents, every day where the world simply felt a little too heavy. They had always worked before. You almost laugh at the thought that your body still leans into his touch out of habit, even now. They don't work this time.

Eventually your crying quiets down, not because you've stopped, but because you've run out of breath. Your chest still trembles every few seconds, your nose burns from trying so hard not to make a sound, and before you can hide your face again James gently pulls away. Not enough to let you go, just enough to see you. His hands leave your back only to find your face instead, cupping your cheeks with a familiarity that makes something inside of you break all over again. His thumbs brush beneath your eyes, catching the tears that keep replacing themselves almost as fast as he wipes them away.

"There you are..." he mumbles, almost without thinking.

You let out a weak laugh that dies before it has the chance to sound like one.

"You can't do that."

James looks at you, confused for only a second before his eyebrows pull together. "Do what?"

"You can't comfort me." Your words come out quiet, your throat already sore from crying. "You can't be the reason I'm crying..." You swallow, forcing yourself to finish the sentence you'd much rather leave unfinished. "...and then wipe my tears like it wasn't you."

His expression falls immediately.

His hands don't leave your face.

If anything, they hold you a little more carefully now, as though you're something fragile he's terrified of dropping. His thumbs stop moving for a second before gently brushing your cheeks again, almost instinctively, like his hands haven't yet caught up with the fact that this is supposed to be the last time he'll ever get to do this.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"James..."

"No... I really am."

"I know."

And you do.

That's the part that hurts the most.

If he had stopped loving you, maybe you could've hated him. Maybe you could've gone to your friends and called him every name you could think of until eventually one of them stuck. Maybe you'd tell yourself he never deserved you anyway. But he was standing right in front of you, looking at you with the same gentle eyes he'd always had, holding your face like it was still the most precious thing in his life (other than puddings) apologizing over and over because he meant every single word.

He still loved you.

You knew he did.

So what were you supposed to do with all the love you still had for him in your heart?

Because it didn't leave. It didn't shrink the second he decided this was the right thing to do. It was still there, filling every corner of your chest, still reaching for him without asking your permission. You still wanted to tell him about the movie you watched yesterday, still wanted to remind him to bring a jacket tomorrow because he'd definitely complain about being cold, still wanted to ask if he'd eaten lunch, still wanted to save the last bite of whatever you were eating because he always stole it anyway, still wanted to see his nearly seven minute videos trying new convenience store snacks, you still wanted to be the one making fun of his rashed red nose from how much he blowed it when he got sick (like always) but none of those feelings had disappeared.

They had simply lost somewhere to go.

So once again, where do you pour all of this suffocating love for him?