#hischier

You hum in response, pretending it doesn’t matter, because it shouldn’t. It’s just one night. But then his phone buzzes. It’s almost subtle, the way everything about him shifts. His attention sharpens instantly, posture straightening as he reads the message, and suddenly he’s no longer half-present in the room with you.

 “Timo needs help moving some stuff,” he says, already pushing off the counter, already reaching for his jacket like the decision has been made for him. “I’ll be back later, yeah?”

You stare at him, the words catching somewhere between your chest and your throat, because just seconds ago he was too busy, too exhausted and too scheduled for something you asked for days in advance.

“Wait—you’re leaving now?” you manage, but he’s already halfway out the door, offering you a quick, distracted smile.

 “Yeah, just for a bit.” Just like that, Timo Meier asks, and Nico goes. You ask, and Nico postpones.

At first, you tell yourself it’s coincidence. Timing. Bad luck. But patterns have a way of revealing themselves, especially when you’re not looking for them. It becomes something you start noticing in the quiet moments, in the pauses after you ask a question, in the way his answers always seem to hinge on some vague future that never quite arrives.

“Can we try that new place downtown?” you ask one evening, scrolling through reviews and pictures, already imagining the two of you there.

“Yeah, next time,” he replies, not unkindly, just distant, like the answer exists on autopilot.

“Can you come to my friend’s birthday on Saturday?” you try again a few days later.

“Next week, for sure.” Always next week. Always later. Never now. And yet, when his phone lights up with a message from the guys, when someone needs help or wants to grab drinks or just hang out, there’s no hesitation, no delay just immediate action, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to choose them.

You don’t mean for it to build into something bigger. You don’t wake up one day deciding to be upset about it. It just… accumulates, quietly, like pressure beneath the surface. Every “next time” stacks on top of the last until they start to feel less like promises and more like excuses, less like scheduling conflicts and more like avoidance. And the worst part isn’t even the waiting, it’s the feeling that you’re always the one expected to understand. To be patient. To adjust. To accept that your place in his life exists somewhere after everything else has been handled.

The fight, when it finally comes, isn’t explosive at first. It starts small, almost deceptively calm. Nico is by the door again, tying his shoes, his keys already in his hand, and you can feel it before you even speak that familiar tightening in your chest, that quiet voice in your head whispering not again.

“You said that last time,” you say, your tone sharper than you intend. He pauses, glancing up at you with a faint crease between his brows.

“Said what?” he asks, like he genuinely doesn’t know. And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

“Next time,” you reply, a hollow laugh slipping out before you can stop it. “You always say next time.”

He straightens slowly, confusion flickering across his face before it gives way to something more defensive.

“I don’t—” he starts, but you cut him off, because now that it’s out, you can’t seem to stop it.

“You do,” you insist, your voice tightening with every word. “It’s like I’m scheduled for later. Always later.”

His expression shifts, jaw tightening as he exhales. “That’s not fair.” The words land heavier than you expect, but they don’t stop you.

“Isn’t it?” you shoot back, crossing your arms like it might hold you together. “Timo calls, you go. The guys need something, you’re already out the door. I ask for anything and it’s—what? A rain check?”

“It’s different,” he says, more sharply now, and something about that makes your chest ache.

“How?” you push, stepping closer despite yourself. “Explain that to me, Nico. Because from where I’m standing, it just looks like I’m not a priority.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, guilt, maybe, or frustration, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it appears.

“That’s not true,” he insists, but it sounds thinner now, less certain.

“Then why does it feel like it is?” you ask, softer this time, and the question hangs between you, heavy and impossible to ignore.

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to find the right words, something that will fix this without unravelling everything else.

“You know how my schedule is,” he says finally. “You know how things are with the team—”

“And I’ve always understood that,” you interrupt, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “I’ve been understanding. That’s the problem. I’m always the one who understands.”

His frustration spikes at that, visible in the way his shoulders tense. “That’s not fair to say.” But you’re already shaking your head, because fairness stopped mattering somewhere along the way.

“No, what’s not fair is feeling like I have to compete with your friends just to spend time with you.”

“They’re not just friends, they’re my teammates—”

“And I’m your girlfriend,” you cut in, the words slipping out raw and unfiltered. “Or at least, I thought I was someone you’d make time for now, not just eventually.”

That’s the moment something in him falters. You can see the way his expression shifts, the way the argument drains just enough to let something more honest through. But it doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t undo the weeks, the months of being put off, of being told later, later, later until later starts to feel like never.

“I do make time for you,” he says, quieter now, like he’s trying to convince both of you. And maybe, in his mind, he does. Maybe all those postponed plans still count to him because he means them when he says them. But intention doesn’t feel the same as presence.

“When?” you ask, barely above a whisper. And that’s the worst part because he doesn’t have an answer. Not one that comes easily, not one that doesn’t sound like another excuse waiting to happen. The silence that follows is suffocating. It stretches between you, filled with everything neither of you knows how to say. You swallow hard, forcing the words out even though they feel like they might break you.

“I don’t want to be your ‘next week,’ Nico,” you admit, your voice softer now, stripped of anger and left with something far more vulnerable. “I want to be your now.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a second, it feels like he finally understands the weight of what you’ve been carrying.

“I didn’t realize…” he starts, but the sentence trails off, unfinished, because realization doesn’t fix what’s already been done.

“Yeah,” you murmur, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “That’s kind of the point.”

He doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t stay, either. For a long moment, Nico just stands there by the door, keys still clutched in his hand like a decision he hasn’t fully made. The silence between you stretches thin, fragile, like it might snap if either of you breathes too hard. You watch him, searching his face for something, anything, that looks like certainty. Like choosing you. But all you find is hesitation, the kind that lingers too long to feel harmless.

“I can cancel,” he says finally, but it doesn’t sound like a decision. It sounds like a question. And that’s what does it. Because you don’t want to be something he can cancel for, you want to be something he doesn’t want to leave in the first place.

“You shouldn’t have to,” you reply, your voice quieter now, but steadier than before. “That’s not the point.”

His jaw tightens slightly, like he knows that answer isn’t going to get him out of this.

“Then what do you want me to do?” he asks, frustration creeping back in, laced with something else, something closer to helplessness.

You let out a slow breath, dragging your hands over your face before looking back at him.

“I want you to stop treating me like I’ll always be there later,” you say. “Like I’m… convenient.”

“I don’t—” he starts again, but the words die halfway out. Because this time, even he doesn’t sound convinced.

Your chest aches at that, at the realization that this isn’t just miscommunication or bad timing. It’s something deeper, something built into the way things have been between you for longer than either of you noticed.

“You don’t even see it,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “That’s the worst part.”

“I’m trying to understand,” Nico says, his voice softer now, stepping a little further into the room like he’s finally choosing a side, but it’s hesitant, uncertain. “Just talk to me.”

You laugh weakly, shaking your head. “I have been talking, Nico. You just weren’t really listening.” That lands harder than anything else you’ve said so far.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair again, pacing once like he’s trying to burn off the tension building under his skin.

“Okay,” he says after a moment, forcing the word out like it costs him something. “Then tell me now. What does ‘choosing you’ even look like to you?”

For a second, you just stare at him because it shouldn’t be that hard to answer, but it is.

“It looks like this not being a debate,” you say finally. “It looks like you not having to think about it this long.” Your voice wavers despite your effort to keep it steady. “It looks like me not feeling like I’m asking for too much just because I want you to show up.”

“I do show up,” he insists, but there’s less conviction now.

“Not when it matters,” you reply, and the quiet certainty in your tone makes him flinch more than if you’d yelled. Another silence falls, heavier this time, filled with things neither of you can take back.

His phone buzzes again. You both glance at it. And there it is, the moment, laid out plainly between you. No arguing, no overthinking. Just a choice. Nico stares at the screen for a second too long and then he flips it over.

“I’m staying,” he says.

It should feel like a victory. It doesn’t because the damage isn’t in whether he stays now, it’s in the fact that you had to get to this point for it to happen.

“I don’t want you to stay because you feel guilty,” you admit quietly.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” you cut in gently, not accusing this time, just tired. “And tomorrow, or next week, it’s just going to happen again. Because nothing actually changed.”

“That’s not true,” he says, stepping closer now, urgency creeping into his voice. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

You look at him, the conflicted expression, the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s trying now in a way he didn’t before. And that’s what makes it hurt.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Now you are.”

The words hang there, unfinished but understood. For the first time since the argument started, Nico doesn’t try to argue back. He just stands there, taking it in, the weight of it settling somewhere deep in his chest.

“So, what, then?” he asks quietly. “What are you saying?”

You hesitate because this is the part where everything shifts.

“I think…” you start, your voice catching before you steady it again. “I think I need some space.”

His expression changes instantly, like the ground just shifted under him. “Space?” he repeats, like the word doesn’t quite make sense.

“Just for a little while,” you clarify, even though you’re not entirely sure what “a little while” means. “I need to not feel like this all the time.”

“Nico…” he begins, then stops himself, exhaling sharply. “I didn’t know it was this bad.”

“I know,” you say softly. “That’s kind of why it hurts.”

He nods slowly, like he’s piecing it together too late, like he’s replaying every “next time” in his head and finally hearing how it must have sounded to you.

“I can fix it,” he says after a moment, more firmly now. “Just—give me the chance to fix it.”

You swallow, because part of you wants to believe him. Wants to hold onto that. But another part, the part that’s been waiting and waiting and waiting, isn’t so sure anymore.

“I don’t need promises right now,” you tell him. “I’ve had a lot of those.”

The words hit their mark. You can see it in the way his shoulders drop slightly, in the way his grip on the keys loosens like he doesn’t even remember he’s holding them.

“What do you need, then?” he asks.

You take a step back, creating just a little more distance between you.