the station air smelled faintly of rain and iron — sharp, cold, restless. conrad stood on the edge of the platform, his bag slung over his shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, he felt empty. not the kind of empty that comes from losing something, but the kind that comes when you’ve already given everything away. he could still hear his voice echoing between them, the words he’d been holding onto for months finally out in the open. i changed. everything about me is different. except one thing. the one thing that never changes is that i love you. he meant every word. he always had. but belly hadn’t said it back. she didn’t have to. the look in her eyes — torn, uncertain, full of things she couldn’t bring herself to say — told him everything he needed to know. maybe she still loved him. maybe she didn’t. but she didn’t trust it. not anymore. he couldn’t blame her for that. he’d had every chance, and he’d wasted them all — with hesitation, with fear, with silence. he’d pushed her away when she wanted him close, and now that he finally wanted to stay, she was already gone.
the air between them had gone still after that, heavy with everything they’d said and everything they hadn’t. @bellsconk didn’t follow him when he turned toward the door. she just stood there, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to hold something in place — maybe her heart, maybe the last pieces of whatever they’d been. he lingered for a second too long, his hand resting on the doorframe. there were a thousand things he wanted to say — one more chance, one more plea, something small and stupid like don’t forget me. but the words stayed stuck behind his teeth, like they knew it wouldn’t matter. so instead, he looked back at her. she was standing by the window, light from the city spilling across her face in soft, uneven streaks. she didn’t look at him. she didn’t have to. ❝ i should go, ❞ he said quietly. his voice barely reached her. ❝ i’ve got to try and catch my train. ❞ he waited, hoping she’d say something else — anything. a reason to stay. a word to make the space between them feel less final. but she didn’t. he took a breath and tried to smile, though it didn’t feel like one. ❝ happy birthday, bells. ❞ her shoulders stiffened at the sound of the nickname. for a moment, she almost turned — he saw the faint movement, the start of it — but then she stopped herself. that was when he knew. this was really it.
the night air hit him the second he stepped outside — cold, sharp, almost sobering. conrad walked fast, hands buried in his pockets, eyes fixed on the blur of streetlights ahead. he tried not to think about the apartment he’d just left, about her voice breaking when she said she couldn't be sure about him, but the sound clung to him anyway. by the time he reached the station, his heart was pounding harder than it should’ve been. he wasn’t running, but it felt like he was — from her, from what he’d said, from everything he still wanted to believe. inside, the platform hummed with noise — the hiss of brakes, soft voices, the faint smell of rain and metal. he found his train just as the lights came into view, bright and blinding against the dark. for a moment, he almost turned back. maybe she’d changed her mind. maybe she was already on her way. but the thought slipped away as fast as it came. she was protecting herself now, and maybe she was right to. he boarded quietly, finding a seat by the window. his reflection stared back at him, tired and hollow, the echo of his own words still hanging in the air. happy birthday, bells. she hadn’t answered. she hadn’t stopped him. outside, the platform began to slide past — empty, fading into shadow. still, he couldn’t stop looking, every flicker of movement making his chest tighten. it was foolish, waiting for something that wasn’t coming. but hope, he realized, had always been his worst habit when it came to her.
