Leo

It all started with my morning coffee, which suddenly turned bitter. Leo sat across from me, studying his phone, and I could feel the icy wall growing between us. Just a week ago, he'd whispered that I was his berth, and today his gaze slid right through me as if I were transparent glass. “We need to talk,” he said without looking up. My heart skipped a beat. I tried to remember: when exactly did it all break? At what point did his laughter stop being meant for me? I saw notifications on my lock screen—short "I miss you" messages from a name I didn't recognize. I hoped it was a mistake, a temporary insanity.

• Leo, if it's that girl... we can fix it. He finally looked up at me. There wasn't a drop of warmth in his eyes, not a trace of the adoration he'd looked at me with for two years. There was only a dull, impenetrable boredom. He stood up, still drinking his coffee, and began methodically packing his things into the backpack he'd kept by the door. Every movement was practiced and indifferent. I walked up to him and tried to touch his hand, but he jerked back as if he had been electrocuted. "Please, just explain to me... You loved me, didn't you? So many plans, this apartment, our summer... Where did it all go in one day?" Tears choked me, making it hard to breathe. Leo stopped at the threshold, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and looked at me as if he'd never seen me before. Not a muscle moved in his face. He adjusted the collar of the jacket I'd given him for his birthday and said coldly, "Your tears are tiring. I'm just bored, you know? With her, everything is different, and you're like a newspaper I've read, and I'm too lazy to even throw it away. Don't call me or try to meet me. You're nothing to me anymore, and I have no name for you."