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The rain was relentless, hammering against the apartment’s windows, each drop echoing the ache in Yim’s chest.
He sat on the edge of their couch, his hands clasped tightly, knuckles white
The air was thick with the scent of rain and the weight of unspoken truths, Yim felt it pressing down on him, like he was drowning in a love he no longer recognized.
They’d been together since high school, two boys who’d found each other in the chaos of adolescence.
Yim could still remember the way Tutor’s hand felt in his, warm and steady, as they sat on the school’s rooftop, dreaming of a future that promised forever.
They had survived college, the ache of long-distance summers, the fights that left them both raw and clinging to each other in the dark.
But somewhere along the way, Yim’s heart had started to slip away, drifting into a void he couldn’t name.
He didn’t know when he stopped loving Tutor, only that the fire in his chest had gone out, leaving only ash and a gnawing guilt that kept him awake at night.
He thought Tutor felt it too. The silences had grown longer, the conversations shallower, the spaces between them wider.
Yim noticed the way Tutor’s smiles faltered, the way his laughter seemed forced, the way he would linger in the kitchen, staring at nothing, as if searching for answers Yim couldn’t give.
They hadn’t fought in months, hadn’t even raised their voices, but the silence was worse, a slow poison that seeped into every corner of their shared life.
Yim was sure Tutor was as tired as he was, that they were both ready to let go, to free each other from this fading love.
“Tor,” Yim said, his voice barely cutting through the rain’s steady drone. He looked up, finding Tutor standing in the kitchen doorway, a dish towel slung over his shoulder, his dark eyes guarded... “We need to talk.”
Tutor’s shoulders stiffened, but he nodded, crossing the room to sit on the coffee table in front of Yim, close enough that their knees brushed.
The contact sent a jolt through Yim, not of warmth but of unease, a reminder of how far they’d drifted. “Yeah,” Tutor said, his voice steady, too steady, like he was bracing for a blow. “I know.”
Yim’s fingers dug into his palms, the pain grounding him as he searched for the words. “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” he said, the confession spilling out like blood from a wound. “Us. It’s not… it’s not working. I don’t feel what I used to, and I think you know that. I think you feel it too.”
Tutor’s face was a mask, unreadable, but his hands twitched, fingers curling into the dish towel as if anchoring himself.
His eyes locked onto Yim’s, searching, probing, and for a moment, Yim thought he saw a flicker of something—pain, maybe, or fear—but it was gone as quickly as it came.
“You’re saying you don’t love me anymore,” Tutor said, his voice flat, almost detached, like he was reciting a fact he’d already accepted.
Yim’s throat burned, a mix of relief and guilt twisting in his gut. He nodded, unable to hold Tutor’s gaze.
“I don’t know when it happened,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “But I don’t feel it anymore. I wake up every day feeling… empty. Like I’m letting you down just by being here. I think you feel it too. We’re not us anymore, Tor.”
Tutor was silent, his gaze dropping to the floor, and Yim’s heart pounded. He had expected tears, maybe anger, a fight to hold on, but not the quiet acceptance.
It made it easier, didn’t it? If Tutor was ready to let go too, they could part without tearing each other apart.
“So, we’re done?” Yim asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the words heavy with finality.
Tutor’s jaw tightened, but he nodded slowly. “If that’s what you want,” he said, his voice low, controlled, but with an edge Yim couldn’t place. “I… I get it. Things haven’t been right for a while. It’s fine.”
The words hit Yim like a punch, not because they hurt but because they felt too easy, too final.
He had braced himself for a storm, but Tutor’s calm agreement left him unsteady, like stepping off a cliff and finding solid ground instead of a fall.
“I’m sorry,” Yim said, the words tasting bitter, inadequate. “I didn’t want it to end like this.”
Tutor’s lips curved into a small, brittle smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Me neither,” he said, and there was something in his tone—something sharp, something that made Yim’s skin prickle with unease.
But he pushed it down, convincing himself it was just the weight of their ending, the natural pain of letting go.
“I’ll pack some things,” Yim said, standing, his legs unsteady as he moved toward the bedroom. “I can stay at P’Bird’s for a bit, figure out what’s next.”
Tutor didn’t move, didn’t follow. “Okay,” he said, his voice so soft it barely reached Yim. “If that’s what you need.”
Yim nodded, his chest tight as he walked away, each step feeling like a betrayal. He didn’t see Tutor’s hands tremble, didn’t see the way his carefully constructed mask shattered the moment Yim left the room.
He didn’t see Tutor press his fists to his mouth, stifling a sob that clawed its way up his throat, threatening to break free. Because Tutor wasn’t on the same page. He never had been.
Tutor loved Yim with a ferocity that hadn’t faded, not even as Yim drifted further away. He’d noticed the distance months ago... the way Yim stopped reaching for his hand, the way his smiles became fleeting, the way his silences stretched into hours.
But Tutor hadn’t given up. He’d woken up every morning with a plan to pull Yim back, to rekindle the spark that had once burned so brightly between them.
He’d cooked Yim’s favorite meals—pad thai, jasmine tea brewed just the way he liked it—even when Yim pushed the plates away, claiming he wasn’t hungry.
He’d leave notes on the fridge, little scraps of his heart—“You’re still my home,” “I’m not giving up,” “I love you, always”—hoping one would break through the wall Yim had built.
He’d planned date nights, dragged Yim to the park where they’d had their first kiss, booked a weekend at the lake where they’d carved their initials into a tree, all in a desperate bid to remind Yim of who they’d been.
But Yim hadn’t noticed, hadn’t seen the way Tutor poured his soul into every gesture, every word.
He hadn’t seen the nights Tutor lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment, searching for the exact second Yim’s love had started to fade.
He hadn’t seen the way Tutor’s hands shook as he wrote those notes, the way his heart broke every time Yim walked past them without a glance.
And now, faced with Yim’s confession, Tutor had made a choice—a lie that cut deeper than any truth.
He’d seen the resolve in Yim’s eyes, the way he was already half-left, his heart already somewhere Tutor couldn’t follow.
Tutor couldn’t bear to beg, to cling, to admit that he was still drowning in love while Yim was ready to fly away.
So he lied, said he felt the same, let Yim believe they were both ready to let go. Because if Yim was going to leave, Tutor wanted him to think it was mutual, that his heart wasn’t shattering with every word.
He wanted Yim to walk away unburdened, even if it meant carrying the weight of that lie alone.
In the bedroom, Yim packed a bag, his movements slow, mechanical, as if he could delay the inevitable.
He folded a shirt, then another, his fingers brushing over a hoodie that smelled faintly of Tutor’s cologne.
Memories flooded him—nights spent tangled in each other’s arms, laughing over stupid jokes, whispering dreams of a house by the sea.
He thought Tutor was ready to move on too, that they had both outgrown this love.
He didn’t know that Tutor was in the kitchen, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles turned white, tears streaming down his face as he bit back a scream.
Tutor’s chest heaved, his breaths ragged as he fought to keep himself together. He wanted to run after Yim, to grab him and beg him to stay, to tell him that he still loved him with every fiber of his being, that he’d do anything to fix this. But he couldn’t.
He’d seen the emptiness in Yim’s eyes, the way he looked at him like a stranger, and he knew begging wouldn’t change it.
So he stayed silent, letting the lie settle between them like dust, heavy and suffocating.
When Yim walked back out, bag slung over his shoulder, Tutor was standing by the door, his face composed again, though his eyes were red-rimmed, glistening with tears he couldn’t fully hide.
He had splashed water on his face, hoping to mask the evidence of his breakdown, but the tremor in his hands betrayed him.
“Take care of yourself,” Tutor said, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him.
“You too,” Yim replied, his throat tight. He hesitated, searching Tutor’s face for something a crack, a sign that this wasn’t what they both wanted but Tutor’s expression was unyielding, a fortress built to keep his pain locked away. “I’m sorry, Tor,” Yim said, the words hollow, useless.
Tutor nodded, his smile brittle, fracturing at the edges. “Me too,” he said, the words slicing through him like a blade.
He wanted to scream that he wasn’t sorry, that he wasn’t ready, that he’d give anything to keep Yim there, but he swallowed it down, letting the lie fester.
Yim stepped into the rain, the cold soaking through his jacket as he walked away, believing they’d both chosen to let go.
Behind him, Tutor had collapsed against the door, his sobs muffled by the storm, his body shaking with the weight of his sacrifice.
Tutor slid to the floor, clutching one of Yim’s forgotten scarves, the soft wool still carrying the faint scent of him.
He pressed it to his face, his tears soaking into the fabric as he wept for the love he’d never stop carrying, for the lie he’d told to set Yim free.
He swore he would fly away too, that he could move on, but it was a lie—a lie that tore him apart, piece by piece, as he sat alone in the apartment that no longer felt like home.
The rain kept falling, washing away the last traces of Yim’s footsteps, but it couldn’t wash away the pain of Tutor’s sacrifice, the heart he’d broken to let Yim go.