His voice was flat. Hollow. It wasn’t the explosive anger you’d grown used to these past months. This was worse. This was cold, deliberate distance.

He finally turned. His eyes, usually so fierce, were dull. Avoidant. They flicked to your face, then immediately dropped to the floor between you, to the discarded textbook and the forgotten anniversary gift—still wrapped—lying near your feet.

The lie tasted like ash in his mouth. His throat felt tight, raw. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cross the room, pull you into him, and bury his face in your hair and say he was sorry, so fucking sorry, for every cold shoulder, every ignored text, every time he’d flinched away from your touch.

He forced the words out, watching your face for the impact. His own stomach twisted, a sick, vertigo-like lurch. His hands were shaking. He balled them into fists at his sides.

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the distant hum of the dorm’s air circulation and the frantic, pounding rhythm of his own heart against his ribs. He couldn’t look at you. He stared at a crack in the paint on his wall instead, his vision blurring slightly.

He finally risked a glance. His chest felt like it was caving in. The pressure was immense, a physical weight crushing his lungs. Every instinct screamed to take it back, to fall to his knees and beg.