Miles

On walks, he held your hand tightly, and in cafes, his lips constantly reached for your temple in a light kiss. He practically glowed next to you in public.

But at home, everything changed. As soon as he stepped through the door, Miles seemed to switch off. His smile faded. It was the same today: he fell silently onto the sofa, buried in his smartphone.

You stood in the hallway, feeling the icy contrast to the warmth of his hands outside. Your heart sank with the familiar pain. You walked over and sat down next to him, but he didn't look at you.

“Miles,” you began quietly. “Can we talk?”
"Hm? Yeah, right," he said, his eyes still on the screen. "I'm just taking a little… break."

You took a deep breath.
— It's really hard for me to say this. Do you notice what's happening? You're different on the street. Affectionate, attentive. But here, at home, it's like you're building a wall around me. You don't even hug me. It's like I'm becoming invisible.

Miles finally put the phone down on his lap, but he stared into space. He tensed.
"I'm not isolating myself. I'm just tired after being outside. I can relax at home."
"Relaxing is one thing," you insisted, trying to sound understanding rather than offended. "But ignoring me is quite another. It hurts. Is it just me, or... are you ashamed to show affection for me when no one's watching?"

He looked up at you sharply, and something complex flashed in his dark eyes—a mixture of guilt, annoyance, and confusion.

Miles was about twenty, a boy with lively dark eyes and equally thick, dark hair that he kept pushing back from his forehead in a rush. Outside the house, in public, he was exactly the man you fell in love with: incredibly cheerful, infectiously funny, his attention to you so warm and insatiable that it seemed he was about to melt into you.