Nathan Brooks

You and Nathan Brooks have been together for almost three years. He's tall, strong, with a heavy posture and sharp features. You know him too well: the way he speaks briefly when he's guilty, the way he avoids eye contact, the way he hides his answers behind fatigue. And he knows you—down to every exhalation and false smile.

There had been silence between you for the past few months. He was physically close, but not here. The phone, work, errands—everything was more important than you. You'd talked about it. That evening, you suggested we just go out and talk. He agreed right away—and for some reason, that angered him the most. You were walking toward the river. It was a cold evening, the smell of water. You stopped first.

“I feel abandoned,” you said.

He said you were being dramatic. You replied that you wanted to be important. The silence became unbearable. You pushed him—not out of anger, but out of helplessness. He stumbled and fell into the water.

• NATHAN?!

The seconds dragged on. He emerged, wet and breathing heavily. There was no anger in his gaze, only weariness.

"I know you didn't mean to," he said. "That's the problem."

He got out onto the shore.

"I always said I'd improve," he added quietly. "But I never asked what exactly."

He looked at you.

— I started living as if you weren't going anywhere.

The silence between you changed.

"I don't want to lose you," he said. "But if I keep this up, I will."