He does so when he first realizes it– in the midst of a relationship that hardly ever had any label. You two met at some event, and he barely even remembers what it was about or which brand invited him. Neither of you were familiar with the other, sending shy glances full of electricity through the room before he gathered up all his courage and walked up to you to introduce himself. You were exciting, sparkling, interesting. All things fatal to Will’s poor heart, making him involuntarily think of you in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep, turning in his sheets and cursing you for running laps around his mind and turning him into an insomniac. 

He followed you on social media the very day after meeting you and you got the hint quickly when he strided his way into your inbox to chat about the most mundane of things– like changing the tires on his car, or the dreaded sponsorships each of you had to record for your channels.

He never intended for ‘this’, as he liked to call it, to become anything serious. His schedule was packed, his perfectionism at his peak, his career the only thing he saw himself committing to at this time of his life. Will wasn’t a romantic– but as every person, he craved human connection. He craved closeness, touch, thrill. The idea of something without it ever becoming anything. 

You two balanced a thin line. Somewhere in between being total strangers and being each other’s partner in crime. Somehow, no one could think of one of you without the other, you came in a pair. And even so, no one questioned when either of you flirted with a stranger at a bar without the other present. 

You two never went on any dates. Not official ones, at least. Will wasn’t sure what the social norm was and whether the late-night hangouts at his flat with cartons of pizza, Netflix in the background and his lips on yours, or the coffee runs in the morning, the heated dancing and the contact of your bodies at the bar counted as dates, but in his mind, if he didn’t call them that, they weren’t. 

Not in the romantic sense, at least.

He never intended to make you a part of his daily routine. The two of you met weekly, though, as if your touch was a part of his schedule for the next 7 days, something he had to check off for the list to be complete, something he had to have to be satisfied. 

Will never meant to fall in love with you. He was smug, egoistic, a little too delusional– he thought he could keep things at an arm’s length, he thought he could have you as someone always in the back of his head. He wanted to be someone you always thought about. He wanted to call you his without it actually being true in the literal sense– a selfish, broken thought that screamed at full volume every time he touched you, every time he held you close.

Will dreads loving you the moment he realizes he does– in the middle of a stupid Christmas party hosted at your house, with barely anyone else to talk, since your circles didn’t really overlap, eggnog making his cheeks rosy and your eyes all sparkly, kissing him under the mistletoe. 

He realizes he loves you, because even though he hates the festivities and the music is too loud and in other circumstances unbearable, when you wish him happy holidays, he realizes there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. 

And that makes him dread the simple truth of it. Because he realizes he’d do anything for you– jump off the roof, give you an organ, pay off your debts, shoot someone for you, anything, had you asked– and that’s nowhere near the nonchalant, non-committal stance he had towards you in his brain. 

He dreads it, because it threatens his independence. It threatens his tightly-guarded vulnerability, something he didn’t even notice he gave up the very first time you two met in between the walls of his lonely, lonely house. Loving you feels like a chore– something he does, even though he doesn’t want to. 

But more-so, he dreads the idea of loving you the very moment he has to give you up the most. 

Days of not speaking to you turn to weeks– by his own doing, fate all in his own hands. Will has always been too scared that if he lets you get any closer, he’d hurt himself by wanting something that threatens the very idea of himself he had since the beginning.

After a few failed attempts at speaking to him, you realize there’s no use trying anymore.

Loving you feels like a chore to Will– something he can’t stop doing, even though you’re gone. 

Maybe having different friend groups was a blessing and a curse all at once. He doesn’t see you in outings, he doesn’t pass you on the street. He doesn’t know how you’re doing, where you are, what your plans are. He no longer has the privilege of your random updates throughout the day, and he can’t even lie to himself and say he doesn’t miss it.

He told himself that shutting you out was like closing the window during the middle of the storm– to protect himself, to shield his heart from eventually breaking– because how could a person like him, so imperfect, so selfish, ever make it work with someone like you?

How foolish of him. Because even when the rain stops, Will can feel it follow him. His sneakers full of water, clothes heavy from the moisture. There’s coldness to his bones and tension in his muscles, a headache settling into his brain from clutching his jaw too hard in the parts of his day that stretch too long without you to make them go by quicker. His apartment is cold and dark, early February, and half of the things that used to lay forgotten by you in the spaces of the four walls he’s forced to call home are missing, making it feel even emptier without your presence. 

His sheets feel hard and scratchy against his skin when he settles into bed every night, brain too tired from running laps all day, replaying the moments you spent together and the moments you spent apart like a broken record, not letting him sleep. And when he does sleep, his dreams are scary– not nightmares you’d wake up from shaking, but bad dreams that linger long after he awakens, mirroring something deep, unconscious rotten inside of him. 

In some of the dreams, you two work out. These are the ones he hates the most– they only remind him of something he could’ve had, only if he allowed himself to try a little harder. Maybe they could've been comforting had he believed it had been the two of you from another universe. Maybe you are meant to be together, in some parallel world, after all.

Some days, he stands on his balcony and stares at nothing. It’s nearing March, and it’s been a month since you two spoke last.

A month since he let the conversation die: an Instagram reel he never replied to, only left it on seen. A month since he had a talk with himself in the mirror, hating himself for being so scared to move your relationship into a place that’s more meaningful. A month since he blamed it all on schedules not aligning and both of you being at a different point in your lives. A month since he last spoke to you. 

A month he’s spent obsessively reading through your last text messages, a deep, masochistic need inside of him telling him he cannot stop until his eyes burn and he’s forced to throw his phone deep into his sheets, on the other side of the bed, the one you used to occupy. 

A month he’s spent watching your life through the screen the way he did before you got close– with the same painful longing in his chest.

They say time heals everything, but Will doesn’t really believe in that anymore. Nor does he believe in out of sight, out of mind– because even though you’ve left, you’re still all he thinks about.

A month after the ‘break up’– if that’s how you could name the slow drifting apart he forced onto the two of you– Will gets batshit drunk for the first time in ages. He does it alone in between the walls of his cold apartment, drinking a whole bottle of red wine on an empty stomach. He throws it up after and never tells anyone. The dullness they all talk about when it comes to alcohol never came– the pain was even sharper, forcing him to look through your old pictures together, all while wondering why he was such a fool to let go of the sight of your smiley face.

Three months after, and Will still flinches at the mention of your name. Something inside of him squeezes on his lungs and takes the air out of him, leaving him vulnerable and defenseless. Whenever someone asks about you, his reaction is dismissive. Talking about you feels embarrassing. He’s the one that ruined it all, but he can’t let anyone know he even cared in the first place.

Four months go by and Will finally deletes the pictures you two took in the club off his phone, deciding he can’t allow himself to torture his poor heart anymore. Five months and he throws himself fully to work again, feeling sick to his stomach as he realizes he is fulfilling his own prophecy. At seven months, he fakes enjoying sex with someone he meets at the club, hating himself when he imagines it’s you he’s kissing, feeling dizzy when he realizes that despite flirting, he hasn’t been with anyone else since he met you.

Eight months, and Will starts wondering why he can’t seem to ever let you fully go. You could move away and build a home with someone new, and he’d still be too busy going over your conversations in his brain, too hung up on the way you never came back to the sweater you left at his house one time after a sleepover. He never moved it from the hanger in his closet– as if letting it there meant you would come back, if only to wear your favorite jumper again.

It’s as if Will foolishly thinks that hanging on means something. That moving on from you means losing you– and Will isn’t ready to lose you twice.

And it’s funny, because it’s his own doing anyway. 

Nine months since he last saw your face in a different form than a few pixels on his screen, and he still loves you, doing so as a chore. Doing it and dreading it, for it’s something that’s single-handedly ruining his life.

At the ten month mark, Will and you find yourself in the same place again. 

The universe must be playing one big, sick joke on him– because you meet at a brand event again, eyes flying to each other involuntarily across the room. Will feels his throat getting dry as you smile at him, cocktail dress hugging your hips just right, the curves of your waist still engraved in his memory from when he used to run his fingertips along it and listen to you sigh. 

“Haven’t seen your face in a while,” you note, humming to yourself as you cautiously reach over the room and finally invite yourself into his personal space. 

Will’s knees almost buckle, not ready for the impact your words have on him. After months of not speaking to you, he realizes he might’ve gotten out of practice when it comes to resisting your charm. And maybe, he was never really immune against it anyway– you always had a way of disarming him in your own, personal way.

He wipes the sweaty pools of his palms on his trousers, clearing his throat before he replies. “Y/N,” he tries out the way your name feels on his tongue again, something about it so foreign after such a while, awkwardness teething at his skin. “How have you been?”

You nod to yourself, shrugging, clearly handling the tense atmosphere between the two of you only a bit easier than him. “Well, up and down,” you muse, “life. You know it.”

Will throws you a tight-lipped smile. He hears the thumping of his own heart in his ears. It feels like he is seconds away from a panic attack. 

“Hope you’ve been well too,” you say, realizing there’s no way to ease into the conversation now, something in Will’s composure sending off signals of someone that truly doesn’t know what to say.

Well, Will’s been fucking miserable. Not that he’d tell you. Not that you should care. 

“Yeah, thanks,” he chokes out, averting his gaze from you to scan around the room, searching for something, anything to turn the conversation to, hating himself for being so bad at small talk in moments where it matters the most. “Brand events are starting to become like… our thing now, innit?” he jokes, but by the bitter laugh that drags out of your chest, he doesn’t really know if it lands.

“Seems to be the only place to catch you nowadays,” you shrug, letting yourself twist the knife in his chest, add a little salt to the wound. He can’t blame you. He never dared to check how you were managing after he cut contact with you– spending one day making himself believe you don’t care if he’s dead or alive and convincing himself you are just as upset about it as he is the very other.

“Yeah, well,” he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “whatever pays the bills, I guess.”

You let out a dry laugh, not really sure how to react to the comment. The conversation feels like torture to both of you, but neither seems to know a way to get out– neither seems to want to get out of it.

“How’s filming going?” you ask, finally something Will can answer to.

“Oh, it’s… it’s going well, yeah,” he says, and actually kind of means it. “Ieuan went freelance, so that kind of complicates things, but other than that, I’ve been working on this thing that I’m really passionate about. It’s like, going to all those random places in Europe and stuff, like, I promise I’m not bragging, but it’s actually really cool.”

There it is– the warm smile, the focused eyes, again. Will almost forgot the way it feels to be stared at by you. It hits him like a baseball bat, square in the face, in full force.

“That sounds really, really nice, Will,” you say, and he can tell you mean it. “I hope it all works out the way you want it, you were always so passionate about those main channel vids, I know it’s gonna be great.” 

He knows you wish him well, and that’s what makes him want to die. 

“Thank you,” he allows himself to smile, allows himself to relax for the first time. “Saw you hit one mill the other day. Congrats,” he says, watching you roll your eyes, but stretch your mouth into a wide grin.

“Well, it’s not quite like travelling across Europe, but yeah,” you muse, “thank you.”

“Don’t be silly,” he shakes his head at you, tone of voice offended on your behalf, “there’s content for everyone. And what you do, you do best.” 

There’s sincerity in his words. A quiet confession that he still cares, that he is still deeply aware of your presence, even though now, mostly the online one. A quiet confirmation of the fact that the admiration he had for you was real, will always be real; something he can’t shrug off. 

“Well, thank you,” you say, tone of voice a little bashful. A girl he’s seen in one of your tagged pictures before reaches the two of you, stealing you back into her conversation and the goodbye you share is quick, rushed. Will leaves the event before he has a chance to speak to you again, but still, he replays the interaction over and over in his mind before he goes to sleep that night, the sight of your smiley face making him feel bittersweet, a longing for something he once almost had, but allowed to get rotten.

A week after meeting you, Will throws himself completely into watching your life through the screen. Any more and he’d have to call himself a stalker– he checks all your stories from a burner account, watching all your videos despite not giving a single damn about skincare routines or recommendations for a sweet Christmas makeup party look. (For more reasons than one, this one in particular feels like twisting a knife in his gut the most.)

Slowly, he dares to cross the lines he’d once drawn. 

He starts liking your pictures again. He leaves a congratulatory comment on your collab with a makeup line he once saw in Sephora when he went there to buy skincare you recommended to him back when you two started talking. A daring, yet simple message in your inbox on your birthday, wishing for all your dreams to come true. It’s like testing the waters, and he hates himself in moments of self-awareness– it’s like checking if you’re still there, if you’re still gonna reply and let him back in, even for the simplest of things. 

He’s starting to get desperate. He knows how it must look in your eyes. He hates himself for having to start over. 

One day, you end up on a shoot with Chris. Will feels like chewing up his pillow, punching a hole into his wall. He’s not sure Chris understood the full intensity of Will’s feelings for you, but after some reflection and deep breaths in front of the mirror, he realizes it’s not that big of a deal and he can’t stop you from inching your way towards his friend circle. 

In theory, he even welcomes it. In practice, there’s still an alarm going off inside of his chest, preparing him for more pain when the inevitable happens and he has to watch you grow close with his friends, after ruining his chance at being the closest to you.

One thing leads to another and you two end up on a Sidemen shoot together. It’s a silly Among Us in real life video, neither of you knowing who was invited beforehand. Acting unaffected by your presence in front of the camera has proven to be the hardest part yet, only getting more difficult as you clearly had no issue with being friendly with him whenever you crossed paths, even teaming up with him to complete some tasks in front of both his entire friendgroup, and the whole internet watching.

Perhaps it means you have no hard feelings towards him anymore. Which would mean you never cared that deeply in the first place, right? 

Maybe you could be friends. Friendly acquaintances. Will would have to settle for that.

He starts to accept the fact the more he casually meets with you. 

Another Sideman shoot. A Chris MD shoot, your hearty laugh resonating through the football pitch. In the hall of his office building, on your journey to a podcast recording for the Fellas studio. At someone’s birthday party. 

And each time, you offer him at least a small talk, a little breach of truce.

He starts despising you for being so polite.

It’s a year later– early February– when everything breaks. It’s a year since he shut you out when it finally overflows, breaks at its seams. At a stupid Valentine’s day party that Chris and the two Arthur’s dragged him to somewhere in east London, insisting on a night out for the ‘single lads’. He hates everything about the packed club, the cheesy music, the expensive entry fee and the overly-perfumed women on the dance floor. The thing he hates the most, though, is the sight of you on the dance floor, enjoying the attention of all the men that aren’t him, dancing face to face with men that are nothing like him, making him question everything that makes him him.

Will never realized how insecure he was up until this night. And with that realization comes one even harsher– that perhaps, this was what ruined it all in the first place. A prisoner of his own mind, guilty of his own choices.

He chugs shots the whole night. His vision goes blurry and his mood is on a stable, slow, downwards spiral. His friends abandon him for cheerful girls on the dance floor, getting lost somewhere in the middle of the sea of people, but he stays glued to his seat. Not even the flirtiest of women make him falter. 

After a particular shot sometime after 2 in the morning, he starts feeling sick to his stomach and makes the smart decision of walking out of the club, resting his back against the concrete wall. He takes a few calming breaths to steady himself, but they do nothing for the uneasiness in his intestines. He fears that if he gets a whiff of the cigarette smoke in the air one more time, it might genuinely make him gag, and so he tries to mentally force himself to think of anything else than how messed up he feels in the moment– so much he almost misses your figure walking out of the club, purse on your shoulder, ready to leave.

He doesn’t notice you walking up to him, a frown sitting on your face. Your voice makes him jump, and for a second, Will thinks he’s entering a state of delirium, your presence nothing more than an image in his head, a hopeless fata morgana.

“Will? Are you all right?” you ask, looking up at him, trying to catch his gaze from where it’s zeroed ont his sneakers.

“Yeah,” he nods, almost too quickly, almost too sure.

It takes you only a few moments to grasp the situation– the wobbling of his figure, the refusal to meet your eyes. He looks wrecked. Something like sympathy rips through you– a feeling you told yourself to bury a long time ago, especially when it comes to Will Lenney. Still, you can’t resist the urge inside of you– almost like a primal instinct, a need to keep him safe.

“Are you on your way home?” you ask.

“Just… getting s’me fresh air,” he slurs, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

There’s a moment of silence as you contemplate your next words, clearly overthinking in the tense atmosphere. “I’m… heading back, actually. We can share a cab, if you’d like,” you offer.

Will considers it, he really does. But the way you look tonight– beautiful, free, sexy– makes him feel defeated, too aware of the knife in his chest that carries your name and he keeps twisting in himself. He shakes his head, declining. “Nah, it’s fine. Would be a detour for you,” he tries to offer a weak smile.

“Will, look–”

“It’s fine,” he insists, “really.”

A car pulls up. Your eyes move from his figure to the vehicle, then back towards the male. You press your lips into a tight line. “Come on,” you order, bringing your hand to his, dragging him towards the cab. “It’s getting late,” you offer as an explanation, the physical contact of your fingers between his quickly disarming the man, making him shut up.

In the taxi, you recite his address from memory. Will hates the nights it makes him remember.

The ride to his place is a blur. He  doesn’t remember much from the journey, nor how he got inside of the apartment– only focused on the contact of your body glued to his side to help steady him on his struggle inside. He faintly remembers handing you his keys, too blurry-eyed to unlock the front door himself. When his legs finally cross the threshold of his bedroom from where you’d carefully led him to, he’s left with panic squeezing on his chest when you turn your back on him to leave.

“Please don’t go,” he blurts out. 

You freeze in the doorway, shoulders tensing at his request. He’s not sure what got over him– he was never brave enough to beg you to stay, only ever having courage to push you away instead– but he guesses it’s time he starts to do things a little differently.

“I won’t– I won’t try anything on you, or something, I just…”

“I know, Will,” you mumble, a sad smile landing on your lips as you turn to face him again.

“I just… don’t want you to go,” is all he settles on, not really having it in him to choose different words, to spill his heart out just yet. Now more than ever, he’s deeply afraid of scaring you away,  since digging up the deep abyss in between of you. 

For a moment, you look at him with sympathy in your eyes. He cowers under your stare, shame prickling the tips of his ears in crimson red. A soft exhale escapes your mouth, looking anywhere but at your past lover still standing– albeit a little wobbly– right opposite of you.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Will,” you offer, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“Y/N,” Will tests the way your name tastes on his tongue, much preferring it to the burning of the alcohol he’s consumed in the past few hours, “you… you came a long way, and it’s– it’s late–”

“You know I can’t do this, Will–”

“Please?” drags out pathetically out of his throat, teeth sinking into his bottom lip so hard it bleeds. “I–” he chokes out helplessly, his cold fingers slipping around your wrist, trying to hold you in your place, stopping you from leaving. The look on your face is steady, staring at him as if he’s a child that’s acting out, having a melt-down– disappointed, condescending, sorry. 

Another breath drags out of your throat as you tear your gaze away, pointing your glossy gaze towards the ceiling. Something breaks in Will at that, slipping to kneel on the floor, pleading. 

“Just stay?” he says, clearing his throat. “I… I’ve been too much of a pussy before and pushed you away, but… but now, for what it’s worth, every second without you makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”

The sight of him on his knees in front of you– albeit close to passing out, behavior clearly amped up by the state of intoxication he found himself in– makes you close your eyes tightly, counting your breath. Your hand slips away from his fingers to rest softly on the top of his head, threading your digits through his disheveled hair. 

“You’re drunk, Will. Just… just go to bed, yeah?” you say, tone of voice defeated– as if you were already preparing for the inevitable, preparing for him to pretend he never said anything in the morning, when he sobers up and his head hurts more than his heart tonight. You say it like it’s breaking you, you say it like you’re hating him for making you hurt.

“I’m drunk,” he nods, admitting, “but– just let me speak. I– I mean it all. I do.”

“I don’t think you’ll even remember this in the morning.”

“I will,” he assures you, “I will. I promise.”

“I– I don’t think–”

Will, selfish as always, cuts you off before you have a chance to say anything. “I mean all of it, I’m just too much of a pussy to say it sober,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “the same way I was back last year.”

Silent, knowing that if you dared to counter-attack or leave, you’d fail and he’d cut you off or beg you some more, you just stare at the man, waiting for his next words. 

“I…” he starts, swallowing hard and licking his lips, preparing himself for the cascade of words coming straight out of his chest, “I’ve spent the last year thinking about you. Not a single day goes by without me thinking about you, and I– I know it’s my fault, ‘cause I pushed you away, and that, but– I… for what it’s worth, I always cared,” he nods to himself. Unsatisfied with his unrehearsed speech, he doubles down.

“It probably doesn’t matter anymore, and it’s fine, like, I get– I get it. I’d hate me too,” and he does, a pathetic voice inside of him screams, “I just… I want you to know that it was never because… I never stopped talking to you because I got bored, or something. I just– it felt too real and I got scared. I dunno why,” he slurs, looking up at you with a hopeless blue of his eyes, “I just did.”

“It was real,” you admit, now also chewing on your bottom lip, “for me, at least.”

“It’s– it’s still real,” he grunts, watching you as you stroke his hair, an open, vulnerable look behind your orbs. 

Much to his dismay, you stay silent. After a moment, one he spends mentally cursing himself out– a cycle he’s been long used to by now, after all these years– he allows himself to try a little harder, to selfishly beg you for more.

“Will you… will you stay until the morning?” he asks, throat hoarse, voice deep. “Please?”

In the morning, he feels restless. Sun shines brightly into the room and the air is thick, heavy with the words of last night. When he turns to you, you’re already looking at him from your usual side of the bed, filling him with a mix of emotions he can’t quite decipher, but feel hard and deep in his heart, throat, the pit of his stomach. He can tell you didn’t sleep much. From the look of it, you barely closed your eyes.

Could you tell him if you’re slipping away? You might not see a reason to stay– but he does.

For a while, neither of you speak. You just study each other’s faces, much like you used to after nights spent together entangled in his sheets, skin on skin. The circumstances are different, but the intimacy still lays over you like a thick blanket. The vulnerability hurts quite the same. 

Then, a breaking point. An alarm sound, a call of a siren.

“Did you mean it?” you ask, voice barely louder than a whisper, searching his eyes. “Last night, I mean.”

Will holds your gaze, nodding. “I did.”

You heave out a breath, pressing your lips tight together before pursing them. “Okay,” you nod, hair tousling in the sheets.

“O-okay?” 

This is not the reaction he expected. Not sure what to do, uncertain in situations that handle the matters of the heart, he desperately opens his mouth again, scrambling up a word vomit that would hopefully relieve him– or better, make you stay again, this time, forever. 

“Y/N, I lo–” drags out of his throat, scratching at the walls of it, leaving claw marks behind– before you cut off the frantic confession with a press of your lips to his, savoring them on your tongue.

And Will responds, shutting his eyes closed, feeling manic. You’re here, tangible, real. Everything he wished for, everything he’d imagined in the last few months of silence. He wants to breath you in like a vapor, get high on your fumes. Your lips work soft, then harder, harsher as you move closer towards him, reaching for his cheek to angle him so you’re comfortable. 

The drag of your nails along his stubble makes him huff into the kiss, his tongue slipping out to dance with yours, licking into your mouth. He hovers over you, nose pressing into your cheek, moves uncoordinated, messy, tamed down for too long. When your hand trails its way along his spine, nails gently scratching back up his back as you slip your palms under his shirt, he feels need slightly creeping up on him, actions following the desire.

Lips moving to your neck, sucking on it and listening to the way you sound when he finds your sweet spot, one of his hands gently presses your wrists above your head, crossing one another, his own image of Mary on a cross– you’re there, breathing under him. You survived,  nails to join your hands. And Will knows he deserves to light like a fire– but truth be told, you’re all he’s ever wanted. In his own, messy, faulty way. 

Receiving heated, firm kisses to your neck, you let him slowly unravel you. You let Will be in charge– even though he never did so in leading your relationship. Perhaps this is his way of seeking redemption, your way of letting him show you he can do it.

“Let me try again, will you?” he says into your ear, nose glazing the soft skin and making you shudder. “I’ll be better this time. I’ll do better.”

High on him, you believe it.

Almost a year later, 365 days since the morning after Valentine’s day, Will still loves you like a chore.

But this time, it’s different. He doesn’t find it annoying or disrupting to his daily schedule. Sure, it’s still something he has to do every day, no matter the weather, mood or circumstance. Loving you feels like a chore to Will, for he can’t make the decision not to do so– it’s repetitive, daily, something he does without thinking about the action. 

Loving you feels like a chore, because he can’t stop doing so. Not when you’re here, more-so not when you’re far. But it’s something he no longer dreads doing– like washing the dishes after a good meal; you do it without thinking. Because you have to. You have to wash the dishes to have something to eat from when you plan to have another meal. You have to put effort into loving someone so you can also enjoy the benefits of their closeness, their affection. 

You have to try in order to make a relationship work. You have to stop being scared of losing your freedom in order to have someone to devote yourself to, someone who would do the same for you, someone to call home. 

Loving you is a chore. One he checks off every day, one he looks forward to.

He does so when he first realizes it– in the midst of a relationship that hardly ever had any label. You two met at some event, and he barely even remembers what it was about or which brand invited him. Neither of you were familiar with the other, sending shy glances full of electricity through the room before he gathered up all his courage and walked up to you to introduce himself. You were exciting, sparkling, interesting. All things fatal to Will’s poor heart, making him involuntarily think of you in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep, turning in his sheets and cursing you for running laps around his mind and turning him into an insomniac. 

He followed you on social media the very day after meeting you and you got the hint quickly when he strided his way into your inbox to chat about the most mundane of things– like changing the tires on his car, or the dreaded sponsorships each of you had to record for your channels.

He never intended for ‘this’, as he liked to call it, to become anything serious. His schedule was packed, his perfectionism at his peak, his career the only thing he saw himself committing to at this time of his life. Will wasn’t a romantic– but as every person, he craved human connection. He craved closeness, touch, thrill. The idea of something without it ever becoming anything. 

You two balanced a thin line. Somewhere in between being total strangers and being each other’s partner in crime. Somehow, no one could think of one of you without the other, you came in a pair. And even so, no one questioned when either of you flirted with a stranger at a bar without the other present. 

You two never went on any dates. Not official ones, at least. Will wasn’t sure what the social norm was and whether the late-night hangouts at his flat with cartons of pizza, Netflix in the background and his lips on yours, or the coffee runs in the morning, the heated dancing and the contact of your bodies at the bar counted as dates, but in his mind, if he didn’t call them that, they weren’t. 

Not in the romantic sense, at least.

He never intended to make you a part of his daily routine. The two of you met weekly, though, as if your touch was a part of his schedule for the next 7 days, something he had to check off for the list to be complete, something he had to have to be satisfied. 

Will never meant to fall in love with you. He was smug, egoistic, a little too delusional– he thought he could keep things at an arm’s length, he thought he could have you as someone always in the back of his head. He wanted to be someone you always thought about. He wanted to call you his without it actually being true in the literal sense– a selfish, broken thought that screamed at full volume every time he touched you, every time he held you close.

Will dreads loving you the moment he realizes he does– in the middle of a stupid Christmas party hosted at your house, with barely anyone else to talk, since your circles didn’t really overlap, eggnog making his cheeks rosy and your eyes all sparkly, kissing him under the mistletoe. 

He realizes he loves you, because even though he hates the festivities and the music is too loud and in other circumstances unbearable, when you wish him happy holidays, he realizes there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. 

And that makes him dread the simple truth of it. Because he realizes he’d do anything for you– jump off the roof, give you an organ, pay off your debts, shoot someone for you, anything, had you asked– and that’s nowhere near the nonchalant, non-committal stance he had towards you in his brain. 

He dreads it, because it threatens his independence. It threatens his tightly-guarded vulnerability, something he didn’t even notice he gave up the very first time you two met in between the walls of his lonely, lonely house. Loving you feels like a chore– something he does, even though he doesn’t want to. 

But more-so, he dreads the idea of loving you the very moment he has to give you up the most. 

Days of not speaking to you turn to weeks– by his own doing, fate all in his own hands. Will has always been too scared that if he lets you get any closer, he’d hurt himself by wanting something that threatens the very idea of himself he had since the beginning.

After a few failed attempts at speaking to him, you realize there’s no use trying anymore.

Loving you feels like a chore to Will– something he can’t stop doing, even though you’re gone. 

Maybe having different friend groups was a blessing and a curse all at once. He doesn’t see you in outings, he doesn’t pass you on the street. He doesn’t know how you’re doing, where you are, what your plans are. He no longer has the privilege of your random updates throughout the day, and he can’t even lie to himself and say he doesn’t miss it.

He told himself that shutting you out was like closing the window during the middle of the storm– to protect himself, to shield his heart from eventually breaking– because how could a person like him, so imperfect, so selfish, ever make it work with someone like you?

How foolish of him. Because even when the rain stops, Will can feel it follow him. His sneakers full of water, clothes heavy from the moisture. There’s coldness to his bones and tension in his muscles, a headache settling into his brain from clutching his jaw too hard in the parts of his day that stretch too long without you to make them go by quicker. His apartment is cold and dark, early February, and half of the things that used to lay forgotten by you in the spaces of the four walls he’s forced to call home are missing, making it feel even emptier without your presence. 

His sheets feel hard and scratchy against his skin when he settles into bed every night, brain too tired from running laps all day, replaying the moments you spent together and the moments you spent apart like a broken record, not letting him sleep. And when he does sleep, his dreams are scary– not nightmares you’d wake up from shaking, but bad dreams that linger long after he awakens, mirroring something deep, unconscious rotten inside of him. 

In some of the dreams, you two work out. These are the ones he hates the most– they only remind him of something he could’ve had, only if he allowed himself to try a little harder. Maybe they could've been comforting had he believed it had been the two of you from another universe. Maybe you are meant to be together, in some parallel world, after all.

Some days, he stands on his balcony and stares at nothing. It’s nearing March, and it’s been a month since you two spoke last.

A month since he let the conversation die: an Instagram reel he never replied to, only left it on seen. A month since he had a talk with himself in the mirror, hating himself for being so scared to move your relationship into a place that’s more meaningful. A month since he blamed it all on schedules not aligning and both of you being at a different point in your lives. A month since he last spoke to you. 

A month he’s spent obsessively reading through your last text messages, a deep, masochistic need inside of him telling him he cannot stop until his eyes burn and he’s forced to throw his phone deep into his sheets, on the other side of the bed, the one you used to occupy. 

A month he’s spent watching your life through the screen the way he did before you got close– with the same painful longing in his chest.

They say time heals everything, but Will doesn’t really believe in that anymore. Nor does he believe in out of sight, out of mind– because even though you’ve left, you’re still all he thinks about.

A month after the ‘break up’– if that’s how you could name the slow drifting apart he forced onto the two of you– Will gets batshit drunk for the first time in ages. He does it alone in between the walls of his cold apartment, drinking a whole bottle of red wine on an empty stomach. He throws it up after and never tells anyone. The dullness they all talk about when it comes to alcohol never came– the pain was even sharper, forcing him to look through your old pictures together, all while wondering why he was such a fool to let go of the sight of your smiley face.

Three months after, and Will still flinches at the mention of your name. Something inside of him squeezes on his lungs and takes the air out of him, leaving him vulnerable and defenseless. Whenever someone asks about you, his reaction is dismissive. Talking about you feels embarrassing. He’s the one that ruined it all, but he can’t let anyone know he even cared in the first place.

Four months go by and Will finally deletes the pictures you two took in the club off his phone, deciding he can’t allow himself to torture his poor heart anymore. Five months and he throws himself fully to work again, feeling sick to his stomach as he realizes he is fulfilling his own prophecy. At seven months, he fakes enjoying sex with someone he meets at the club, hating himself when he imagines it’s you he’s kissing, feeling dizzy when he realizes that despite flirting, he hasn’t been with anyone else since he met you.

Eight months, and Will starts wondering why he can’t seem to ever let you fully go. You could move away and build a home with someone new, and he’d still be too busy going over your conversations in his brain, too hung up on the way you never came back to the sweater you left at his house one time after a sleepover. He never moved it from the hanger in his closet– as if letting it there meant you would come back, if only to wear your favorite jumper again.

It’s as if Will foolishly thinks that hanging on means something. That moving on from you means losing you– and Will isn’t ready to lose you twice.

And it’s funny, because it’s his own doing anyway. 

Nine months since he last saw your face in a different form than a few pixels on his screen, and he still loves you, doing so as a chore. Doing it and dreading it, for it’s something that’s single-handedly ruining his life.

At the ten month mark, Will and you find yourself in the same place again. 

The universe must be playing one big, sick joke on him– because you meet at a brand event again, eyes flying to each other involuntarily across the room. Will feels his throat getting dry as you smile at him, cocktail dress hugging your hips just right, the curves of your waist still engraved in his memory from when he used to run his fingertips along it and listen to you sigh. 

“Haven’t seen your face in a while,” you note, humming to yourself as you cautiously reach over the room and finally invite yourself into his personal space. 

Will’s knees almost buckle, not ready for the impact your words have on him. After months of not speaking to you, he realizes he might’ve gotten out of practice when it comes to resisting your charm. And maybe, he was never really immune against it anyway– you always had a way of disarming him in your own, personal way.

He wipes the sweaty pools of his palms on his trousers, clearing his throat before he replies. “Y/N,” he tries out the way your name feels on his tongue again, something about it so foreign after such a while, awkwardness teething at his skin. “How have you been?”

You nod to yourself, shrugging, clearly handling the tense atmosphere between the two of you only a bit easier than him. “Well, up and down,” you muse, “life. You know it.”

Will throws you a tight-lipped smile. He hears the thumping of his own heart in his ears. It feels like he is seconds away from a panic attack. 

“Hope you’ve been well too,” you say, realizing there’s no way to ease into the conversation now, something in Will’s composure sending off signals of someone that truly doesn’t know what to say.

Well, Will’s been fucking miserable. Not that he’d tell you. Not that you should care. 

“Yeah, thanks,” he chokes out, averting his gaze from you to scan around the room, searching for something, anything to turn the conversation to, hating himself for being so bad at small talk in moments where it matters the most. “Brand events are starting to become like… our thing now, innit?” he jokes, but by the bitter laugh that drags out of your chest, he doesn’t really know if it lands.

“Seems to be the only place to catch you nowadays,” you shrug, letting yourself twist the knife in his chest, add a little salt to the wound. He can’t blame you. He never dared to check how you were managing after he cut contact with you– spending one day making himself believe you don’t care if he’s dead or alive and convincing himself you are just as upset about it as he is the very other.

“Yeah, well,” he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “whatever pays the bills, I guess.”

You let out a dry laugh, not really sure how to react to the comment. The conversation feels like torture to both of you, but neither seems to know a way to get out– neither seems to want to get out of it.

“How’s filming going?” you ask, finally something Will can answer to.

“Oh, it’s… it’s going well, yeah,” he says, and actually kind of means it. “Ieuan went freelance, so that kind of complicates things, but other than that, I’ve been working on this thing that I’m really passionate about. It’s like, going to all those random places in Europe and stuff, like, I promise I’m not bragging, but it’s actually really cool.”

There it is– the warm smile, the focused eyes, again. Will almost forgot the way it feels to be stared at by you. It hits him like a baseball bat, square in the face, in full force.

“That sounds really, really nice, Will,” you say, and he can tell you mean it. “I hope it all works out the way you want it, you were always so passionate about those main channel vids, I know it’s gonna be great.” 

He knows you wish him well, and that’s what makes him want to die. 

“Thank you,” he allows himself to smile, allows himself to relax for the first time. “Saw you hit one mill the other day. Congrats,” he says, watching you roll your eyes, but stretch your mouth into a wide grin.

“Well, it’s not quite like travelling across Europe, but yeah,” you muse, “thank you.”

“Don’t be silly,” he shakes his head at you, tone of voice offended on your behalf, “there’s content for everyone. And what you do, you do best.” 

There’s sincerity in his words. A quiet confession that he still cares, that he is still deeply aware of your presence, even though now, mostly the online one. A quiet confirmation of the fact that the admiration he had for you was real, will always be real; something he can’t shrug off. 

“Well, thank you,” you say, tone of voice a little bashful. A girl he’s seen in one of your tagged pictures before reaches the two of you, stealing you back into her conversation and the goodbye you share is quick, rushed. Will leaves the event before he has a chance to speak to you again, but still, he replays the interaction over and over in his mind before he goes to sleep that night, the sight of your smiley face making him feel bittersweet, a longing for something he once almost had, but allowed to get rotten.

A week after meeting you, Will throws himself completely into watching your life through the screen. Any more and he’d have to call himself a stalker– he checks all your stories from a burner account, watching all your videos despite not giving a single damn about skincare routines or recommendations for a sweet Christmas makeup party look. (For more reasons than one, this one in particular feels like twisting a knife in his gut the most.)

Slowly, he dares to cross the lines he’d once drawn. 

He starts liking your pictures again. He leaves a congratulatory comment on your collab with a makeup line he once saw in Sephora when he went there to buy skincare you recommended to him back when you two started talking. A daring, yet simple message in your inbox on your birthday, wishing for all your dreams to come true. It’s like testing the waters, and he hates himself in moments of self-awareness– it’s like checking if you’re still there, if you’re still gonna reply and let him back in, even for the simplest of things. 

He’s starting to get desperate. He knows how it must look in your eyes. He hates himself for having to start over. 

One day, you end up on a shoot with Chris. Will feels like chewing up his pillow, punching a hole into his wall. He’s not sure Chris understood the full intensity of Will’s feelings for you, but after some reflection and deep breaths in front of the mirror, he realizes it’s not that big of a deal and he can’t stop you from inching your way towards his friend circle. 

In theory, he even welcomes it. In practice, there’s still an alarm going off inside of his chest, preparing him for more pain when the inevitable happens and he has to watch you grow close with his friends, after ruining his chance at being the closest to you.

One thing leads to another and you two end up on a Sidemen shoot together. It’s a silly Among Us in real life video, neither of you knowing who was invited beforehand. Acting unaffected by your presence in front of the camera has proven to be the hardest part yet, only getting more difficult as you clearly had no issue with being friendly with him whenever you crossed paths, even teaming up with him to complete some tasks in front of both his entire friendgroup, and the whole internet watching.

Perhaps it means you have no hard feelings towards him anymore. Which would mean you never cared that deeply in the first place, right? 

Maybe you could be friends. Friendly acquaintances. Will would have to settle for that.

He starts to accept the fact the more he casually meets with you. 

Another Sideman shoot. A Chris MD shoot, your hearty laugh resonating through the football pitch. In the hall of his office building, on your journey to a podcast recording for the Fellas studio. At someone’s birthday party. 

And each time, you offer him at least a small talk, a little breach of truce.

He starts despising you for being so polite.

It’s a year later– early February– when everything breaks. It’s a year since he shut you out when it finally overflows, breaks at its seams. At a stupid Valentine’s day party that Chris and the two Arthur’s dragged him to somewhere in east London, insisting on a night out for the ‘single lads’. He hates everything about the packed club, the cheesy music, the expensive entry fee and the overly-perfumed women on the dance floor. The thing he hates the most, though, is the sight of you on the dance floor, enjoying the attention of all the men that aren’t him, dancing face to face with men that are nothing like him, making him question everything that makes him him.

Will never realized how insecure he was up until this night. And with that realization comes one even harsher– that perhaps, this was what ruined it all in the first place. A prisoner of his own mind, guilty of his own choices.

He chugs shots the whole night. His vision goes blurry and his mood is on a stable, slow, downwards spiral. His friends abandon him for cheerful girls on the dance floor, getting lost somewhere in the middle of the sea of people, but he stays glued to his seat. Not even the flirtiest of women make him falter. 

After a particular shot sometime after 2 in the morning, he starts feeling sick to his stomach and makes the smart decision of walking out of the club, resting his back against the concrete wall. He takes a few calming breaths to steady himself, but they do nothing for the uneasiness in his intestines. He fears that if he gets a whiff of the cigarette smoke in the air one more time, it might genuinely make him gag, and so he tries to mentally force himself to think of anything else than how messed up he feels in the moment– so much he almost misses your figure walking out of the club, purse on your shoulder, ready to leave.

He doesn’t notice you walking up to him, a frown sitting on your face. Your voice makes him jump, and for a second, Will thinks he’s entering a state of delirium, your presence nothing more than an image in his head, a hopeless fata morgana.

“Will? Are you all right?” you ask, looking up at him, trying to catch his gaze from where it’s zeroed ont his sneakers.

“Yeah,” he nods, almost too quickly, almost too sure.

It takes you only a few moments to grasp the situation– the wobbling of his figure, the refusal to meet your eyes. He looks wrecked. Something like sympathy rips through you– a feeling you told yourself to bury a long time ago, especially when it comes to Will Lenney. Still, you can’t resist the urge inside of you– almost like a primal instinct, a need to keep him safe.

“Are you on your way home?” you ask.

“Just… getting s’me fresh air,” he slurs, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

There’s a moment of silence as you contemplate your next words, clearly overthinking in the tense atmosphere. “I’m… heading back, actually. We can share a cab, if you’d like,” you offer.

Will considers it, he really does. But the way you look tonight– beautiful, free, sexy– makes him feel defeated, too aware of the knife in his chest that carries your name and he keeps twisting in himself. He shakes his head, declining. “Nah, it’s fine. Would be a detour for you,” he tries to offer a weak smile.

“Will, look–”

“It’s fine,” he insists, “really.”

A car pulls up. Your eyes move from his figure to the vehicle, then back towards the male. You press your lips into a tight line. “Come on,” you order, bringing your hand to his, dragging him towards the cab. “It’s getting late,” you offer as an explanation, the physical contact of your fingers between his quickly disarming the man, making him shut up.

In the taxi, you recite his address from memory. Will hates the nights it makes him remember.

The ride to his place is a blur. He  doesn’t remember much from the journey, nor how he got inside of the apartment– only focused on the contact of your body glued to his side to help steady him on his struggle inside. He faintly remembers handing you his keys, too blurry-eyed to unlock the front door himself. When his legs finally cross the threshold of his bedroom from where you’d carefully led him to, he’s left with panic squeezing on his chest when you turn your back on him to leave.

“Please don’t go,” he blurts out. 

You freeze in the doorway, shoulders tensing at his request. He’s not sure what got over him– he was never brave enough to beg you to stay, only ever having courage to push you away instead– but he guesses it’s time he starts to do things a little differently.

“I won’t– I won’t try anything on you, or something, I just…”

“I know, Will,” you mumble, a sad smile landing on your lips as you turn to face him again.

“I just… don’t want you to go,” is all he settles on, not really having it in him to choose different words, to spill his heart out just yet. Now more than ever, he’s deeply afraid of scaring you away,  since digging up the deep abyss in between of you. 

For a moment, you look at him with sympathy in your eyes. He cowers under your stare, shame prickling the tips of his ears in crimson red. A soft exhale escapes your mouth, looking anywhere but at your past lover still standing– albeit a little wobbly– right opposite of you.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Will,” you offer, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“Y/N,” Will tests the way your name tastes on his tongue, much preferring it to the burning of the alcohol he’s consumed in the past few hours, “you… you came a long way, and it’s– it’s late–”

“You know I can’t do this, Will–”

“Please?” drags out pathetically out of his throat, teeth sinking into his bottom lip so hard it bleeds. “I–” he chokes out helplessly, his cold fingers slipping around your wrist, trying to hold you in your place, stopping you from leaving. The look on your face is steady, staring at him as if he’s a child that’s acting out, having a melt-down– disappointed, condescending, sorry. 

Another breath drags out of your throat as you tear your gaze away, pointing your glossy gaze towards the ceiling. Something breaks in Will at that, slipping to kneel on the floor, pleading. 

“Just stay?” he says, clearing his throat. “I… I’ve been too much of a pussy before and pushed you away, but… but now, for what it’s worth, every second without you makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”

The sight of him on his knees in front of you– albeit close to passing out, behavior clearly amped up by the state of intoxication he found himself in– makes you close your eyes tightly, counting your breath. Your hand slips away from his fingers to rest softly on the top of his head, threading your digits through his disheveled hair. 

“You’re drunk, Will. Just… just go to bed, yeah?” you say, tone of voice defeated– as if you were already preparing for the inevitable, preparing for him to pretend he never said anything in the morning, when he sobers up and his head hurts more than his heart tonight. You say it like it’s breaking you, you say it like you’re hating him for making you hurt.

“I’m drunk,” he nods, admitting, “but– just let me speak. I– I mean it all. I do.”

“I don’t think you’ll even remember this in the morning.”

“I will,” he assures you, “I will. I promise.”

“I– I don’t think–”

Will, selfish as always, cuts you off before you have a chance to say anything. “I mean all of it, I’m just too much of a pussy to say it sober,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “the same way I was back last year.”

Silent, knowing that if you dared to counter-attack or leave, you’d fail and he’d cut you off or beg you some more, you just stare at the man, waiting for his next words. 

“I…” he starts, swallowing hard and licking his lips, preparing himself for the cascade of words coming straight out of his chest, “I’ve spent the last year thinking about you. Not a single day goes by without me thinking about you, and I– I know it’s my fault, ‘cause I pushed you away, and that, but– I… for what it’s worth, I always cared,” he nods to himself. Unsatisfied with his unrehearsed speech, he doubles down.

“It probably doesn’t matter anymore, and it’s fine, like, I get– I get it. I’d hate me too,” and he does, a pathetic voice inside of him screams, “I just… I want you to know that it was never because… I never stopped talking to you because I got bored, or something. I just– it felt too real and I got scared. I dunno why,” he slurs, looking up at you with a hopeless blue of his eyes, “I just did.”

“It was real,” you admit, now also chewing on your bottom lip, “for me, at least.”

“It’s– it’s still real,” he grunts, watching you as you stroke his hair, an open, vulnerable look behind your orbs. 

Much to his dismay, you stay silent. After a moment, one he spends mentally cursing himself out– a cycle he’s been long used to by now, after all these years– he allows himself to try a little harder, to selfishly beg you for more.

“Will you… will you stay until the morning?” he asks, throat hoarse, voice deep. “Please?”

In the morning, he feels restless. Sun shines brightly into the room and the air is thick, heavy with the words of last night. When he turns to you, you’re already looking at him from your usual side of the bed, filling him with a mix of emotions he can’t quite decipher, but feel hard and deep in his heart, throat, the pit of his stomach. He can tell you didn’t sleep much. From the look of it, you barely closed your eyes.

Could you tell him if you’re slipping away? You might not see a reason to stay– but he does.

For a while, neither of you speak. You just study each other’s faces, much like you used to after nights spent together entangled in his sheets, skin on skin. The circumstances are different, but the intimacy still lays over you like a thick blanket. The vulnerability hurts quite the same. 

Then, a breaking point. An alarm sound, a call of a siren.

“Did you mean it?” you ask, voice barely louder than a whisper, searching his eyes. “Last night, I mean.”

Will holds your gaze, nodding. “I did.”

You heave out a breath, pressing your lips tight together before pursing them. “Okay,” you nod, hair tousling in the sheets.

“O-okay?” 

This is not the reaction he expected. Not sure what to do, uncertain in situations that handle the matters of the heart, he desperately opens his mouth again, scrambling up a word vomit that would hopefully relieve him– or better, make you stay again, this time, forever. 

“Y/N, I lo–” drags out of his throat, scratching at the walls of it, leaving claw marks behind– before you cut off the frantic confession with a press of your lips to his, savoring them on your tongue.

And Will responds, shutting his eyes closed, feeling manic. You’re here, tangible, real. Everything he wished for, everything he’d imagined in the last few months of silence. He wants to breath you in like a vapor, get high on your fumes. Your lips work soft, then harder, harsher as you move closer towards him, reaching for his cheek to angle him so you’re comfortable. 

The drag of your nails along his stubble makes him huff into the kiss, his tongue slipping out to dance with yours, licking into your mouth. He hovers over you, nose pressing into your cheek, moves uncoordinated, messy, tamed down for too long. When your hand trails its way along his spine, nails gently scratching back up his back as you slip your palms under his shirt, he feels need slightly creeping up on him, actions following the desire.

Lips moving to your neck, sucking on it and listening to the way you sound when he finds your sweet spot, one of his hands gently presses your wrists above your head, crossing one another, his own image of Mary on a cross– you’re there, breathing under him. You survived,  nails to join your hands. And Will knows he deserves to light like a fire– but truth be told, you’re all he’s ever wanted. In his own, messy, faulty way. 

Receiving heated, firm kisses to your neck, you let him slowly unravel you. You let Will be in charge– even though he never did so in leading your relationship. Perhaps this is his way of seeking redemption, your way of letting him show you he can do it.

“Let me try again, will you?” he says into your ear, nose glazing the soft skin and making you shudder. “I’ll be better this time. I’ll do better.”

High on him, you believe it.

Almost a year later, 365 days since the morning after Valentine’s day, Will still loves you like a chore.

But this time, it’s different. He doesn’t find it annoying or disrupting to his daily schedule. Sure, it’s still something he has to do every day, no matter the weather, mood or circumstance. Loving you feels like a chore to Will, for he can’t make the decision not to do so– it’s repetitive, daily, something he does without thinking about the action. 

Loving you feels like a chore, because he can’t stop doing so. Not when you’re here, more-so not when you’re far. But it’s something he no longer dreads doing– like washing the dishes after a good meal; you do it without thinking. Because you have to. You have to wash the dishes to have something to eat from when you plan to have another meal. You have to put effort into loving someone so you can also enjoy the benefits of their closeness, their affection. 

You have to try in order to make a relationship work. You have to stop being scared of losing your freedom in order to have someone to devote yourself to, someone who would do the same for you, someone to call home. 

Loving you is a chore. One he checks off every day, one he looks forward to.