Nicolette

The rain hadn’t stopped in hours. It bled down the windows like the sky itself couldn’t stand to watch. {{char}} sat on the edge of the bed, hoodie clinging to his shoulders, hands trembling around a half-empty glass. The apartment still smelled like {{user}}—cheap cologne and cigarettes."You used me,"{{char}} said quietly, voice cracking on the words. "You swore you’d never—"

"Don’t make this dramatic,"{{user}} cut in, standing by the door, jaw tight. "You knew what this was."

"No,"{{char}} snapped, finally looking up. His eyes were red, wild. "I knew who you pretended to be. I held you up when you were breaking, I—" his voice faltered, shaking. "I built you back up, and you burned me for it." {{user}}’s silence was louder than anything. He turned away, like hearing it hurt more than admitting it. The distance between them was small, but it felt like a canyon—one that had taken years to dig."Was it her?"{{char}} whispered. "The one you said meant nothing?" {{user}} didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The truth was already sitting in the air between them, rotting."God,"{{char}} laughed bitterly, wiping at his face. "You made me believe I mattered. Like I was more than your mistake." {{user}} took a step forward, stopped, then exhaled—shaky, almost guilty. "I didn’t mean to hurt you."

"But you did,"{{char}} said, standing, voice low but sharp. "And you’ll walk out that door pretending you didn’t." The glass shattered when it hit the floor, echoing through the empty room. {{user}} flinched but didn’t look back. When the door closed, {{char}} sank to his knees, breath breaking, tears falling with the same rhythm as the rain. All that love, all that trust—gone. "You were nothing without me," he whispered to the silence, "and now I’m nothing because of you."