Before It's Over - Bob Floyd (Part 1)
Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x reader
Word Count: 6.1k
Themes: emotional distance, fear of abandonment, emotional baggage, what ifs, emotional angst, insecurities, projected insecurities.
Warnings: Emotional angst, emotional compartmentalization, preparing for the end, self isolation, loneliness, subtle emotional trauma, fear of abandonment, presumed infidelity, lots of hurt feelings, miscommunication, literally so much miscommunication, failure to communicate at all in some places, both bob and reader are preparing for the worst, bob loves reader so much it literally makes my chest feel like its caving in, both of them are pretending everything is fine, neither of them are actually fine, so much emotional tension, both are wound so tight that they're probably going to snap at any moment, I'm so sorry its so long, I can't stop myself, I literally go into a fugue state when writing angst, I’m so sorry in advance
Summary: You used to look at Bob and feel like you were basking in the sun. He used to look at you and feel the whole world still around him. Neither of you knows when it happened, but at some point you both started to pull away. He grasps at straws, trying to keep you close. You try to give him something good to look back on when he leaves. Neither of you knows that the other is quietly falling apart when the other isn't looking.
The first sound that you register that morning is the kettle warming on the stove. Not the whistle that tells you that it’s hot and ready, but the gentle click of it as it heats, the steam hissing in a barely-there exhale.
The sun isn’t fully up yet, the light that comes in through the slats of the blinds still a dark blue hue as the sun lifts into the sky slowly.
In the kitchen, the lights under the cabinet are on, spilling a warm hue across the backsplash tiles in soft gold, painting long shadows as Bob moves around the counter. He moves quietly, as if he’s prepping for a stealth mission; every movement calculated and methodical.
As the kettle starts to squeal, he flips the heat off, and reaches for two mugs. In a moment of hesitation, he pauses. His hand hovers above the cabinet shelf for a second longer than necessary before he grabs one mug, and sets it down quietly on the counter.
His shoulders are tense, his jaw is set, and his brow is furrowed. He grabs a second mug anyway.
He doesn’t know if you’ll want any tea, because you haven’t, the past few mornings that he’s woken up in your bed. He’ll wake up, your back to him, your body on the very edge of the bed, as if you can’t stand to be close to him.
He’ll wait, watching and listening in case your breathing changes in a way that tells him that you’ve woken up. But you don’t, so he gets up; like clockwork, every other day for the past three weeks.
It’s not just that, but you’ve also been sleeping later, or at the very least, pretending to. He hasn’t asked, not directly, but he’s noticed the shift; and the change in your demeanor is enough to make his heart feel heavy.
He doesn’t know what he’s done, to earn the cold shoulder, but he still makes your tea the way you like it, every morning. Despite the fact that you usually dump it out as soon as you walk into the kitchen, he still leaves it on the counter, just in case.
Behind him, the apartment is still. The reverence that seems to follow the slow ascent of the sun every morning seeping into every corner of the space. The only discernible movement is the shift of sunlight on the floor, slowly changing from a deep blue to a thick gold as the minutes tick by.
As he watches the shift, his thoughts are already spiraling; too many what if’s, too early in the morning.
She’s pulling away.
It had started as small changes. First, a heavy hesitation before you spoke; then a few seconds too long replying to a text; the typing bubbles lifting, then disappearing. Reappearing, and disappearing, no less than three times, only to result in something noncommittal.
Ok.
Then it was the death of your laughter at dinner, the increase of your silence when he reached for you, the way you shifted away from him, leaning away from his touch.
He’d tried to tell himself it was in his head, that he was tired, that he was stressed, that he was projecting his own insecurities onto your actions, but then he’d catch you looking at him like you were memorizing him.
The numbness in your gaze, as if you were trying to tuck pieces of him away, to save for later. The light dimming in your eyes when you looked at him. The drawn expressions that you gave him, when you used to look at him like he’d hung the moon in the sky, just for you to look at.
Despite his best efforts to explain it all away, it still felt like you were slowly boxing up your feelings, and preparing to say goodbye.
He stares at the tea in the mugs, still swirling from the spoon he’s stirred them with, and brings them to the table, sitting down in the half-light.
His gaze is locked on the wall, but his vision is blurry and unfocused; he’s staring at nothing. His mind is spiraling, thinking of everything he’s ever done that might upset you.
Any clues that he might have missed by being in his own world when he was tired after a particularly long day of flight routines, any cues that you may have given that he just missed in the past few months; but he doesn’t find any.
His fingers curl around the warmth of the ceramic as the tea stares back up at him. The warmth and coziness of an early morning should feel comforting. Unfortunately, it doesn’t.
-----------------------------
You wake up the second time to the smell of tea. Your favorite tea, brewed precisely the way that you like it, no doubt waiting on the table for you, perfectly sweetened with just the right amount of cream.
You knew that Bob would be sitting in the kitchen, or on the couch, nursing a cup of tea and reading; the sight familiar, comfortable, and almost dangerous.
The sight of him relaxed always made your knees weak, his sleepy eyes darting across a page as he read, his brows gently furrowed; one hand gripping a mug like a lifeline while the other held his book open.
You lie in bed for a moment longer, eyes still closed, heart already aching; knowing that he was being sweet again.
He had been sweet for the past few weeks, his touches softer than usual; he was bringing you small gifts, just because they made him think of you; holding you longer when he hugged you, offering to pick up your favorite snacks without you even asking.
Just last night, he had kissed your forehead, just lingering there, nose buried in your hair and arms wrapped tightly around you, as if he was memorizing the way that you were in that exact moment. You had pressed your face into his chest and tried not to cry.
Partially because you’d just wanted him to hold you, and partially because you knew exactly what it was that he was doing, exactly what he’d been doing for weeks; he’s been trying to make the end easier.
You buried your face in your pillow, squeezing your eyes tightly, the scent of his shampoo still lingering on the pillowcase.
You tried to commit it to memory, the way that he smelled, the way that his body felt when it was pressed against yours, his puffs of breath as he exhaled rushing across the back of your neck.
You’ve seen this kind of ending before, not with Bob, but with others. When they get quiet, and kind, and when the sudden tenderness is just a way to soften the landing; it’s just a goodbye that doesn’t sound like goodbye.
You swallow the lump in your throat, pushing the dread away, tucking it tightly into the little box where you stored all of your big feelings; and push yourself up onto your elbows, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed.
You pulled on a hoodie that was laying across the bottom of the bed – one of his hoodies – and stood up to walk into the kitchen; preparing yourself for the feeling that will build in your chest as you smile at him like nothing is wrong.
When you make it into the kitchen, you find Bob, seated at the table; his shoulders are hunched over, his head is hanging low. You notice how tightly his hands are wrapped around his mug, as if that’s the only stable, steady thing in the room; and if he lets it go he’ll spin out of control.
You pause at the other end of the kitchen, hands resting on the island countertop, taking a breath to steady yourself.
“Morning,” you murmur, your voice stiff; partially from the lump in your throat, making your voice unsteady, partially scratchy with the remnants of sleep. He seems to snap out of whatever thoughts he was lost in when he hears your voice, and his eyes lift to meet yours.
“Hey,” he responds, his voice scratchy too, almost as if he hadn’t thought he’d speak at all; all day.
“I made tea.” He mentioned the tea in a way that felt like an afterthought, as if he needed to fill the silence.
“I see that,” you respond, moving your gaze to the mug that was placed on the table, at the seat next to him. Your stomach twists, and you don’t tell him thank you. You can’t. Your throat is closing up at the resignation that’s written all over his face, the defeat in his posture.
You can’t bring yourself to move your feet to get any closer to him, so you don’t kiss his cheek, and you don’t sit in his lap like you used to in the mornings.
He doesn’t say anything to you about it, but he notices.
You grip your mug of tea, lifting it to your face to sip it, moving to sit opposite him; and pretend not to feel the way his eyes follow your every move.
It feels as if he’s afraid he’s going to forget how you look in the mornings, hair still a mess, face still puffy with sleep, holding your mug as if it will tell you all of the answers to your problems that morning.
Neither of you says anything else, quietly sitting on opposite ends of the table, avoiding eye contact with each other, tense without knowing how to fix it.
-----------------------------
The rest of the day passes in that same fragile rhythm, stolen glances where you can feel the tension and falling apart when the other isn’t looking.
You clean the apartment, swallowing the lump in your throat every time you catch him looking at you; scrubbing every corner that you’ve overlooked since you moved in. Bob goes outside and fixes the lawnmower that sits in the garage, untouched since last summer, mumbling something about making sure it’s ready for the summer.
You cook dinner, silently while holding your tongue and hoping that he doesn’t say anything that requires a thoughtful response. He washes dishes while you sit in the living room and scroll through Pinterest on your phone, trying to ignore the way that he looks at you when he dares to peek over his shoulder.
Everything is careful. Everything is gentle. Both of you are distant.
You tell yourself to be what he wants; be soft, quiet, and gentle; try not to give him a reason to walk away. Because maybe if you’re perfect enough, he’ll stay a little while longer. Maybe if you’re able to be what he wants you to be, he won’t feel the need to go.
So when he comes back inside from a second session in the garage with the lawnmower, you put on music, and you smile when you hand him a beer. You swallow your heartache and sit next to him on the couch, leaning your head on his shoulder; and when his arm comes around you, you steel yourself and force yourself not to flinch.
Not because you don’t want him to, but because you do want him to, too much. And you don’t trust yourself not to beg him to stay when you can already feel the space growing between you.
-----------------------------
Bob’s heart breaks a little bit more with each smile that he sees you faking.
He can see it now, how tired your eyes look, how your voice catches sometimes before you speak; how you haven’t even bothered to say I love you in days. He had thought that maybe you were just stressed, that work, or maybe something else, was bothering you. But now, as you sit next to him, tense as he has his arms wrapped around you, he’s sure that it’s him, that he’s done something wrong; something too boring.
That he’s too quiet, or that he’s not enough.
He doesn’t know who it is, that’s caught your attention, drawing the light of your gaze away from him; and he doesn’t even want to imagine. But he can’t continue pretending that he hasn’t seen the way your phone lights up and you smile at the screen in a way that you don’t smile at him anymore.
He notices the way that you take longer to respond to him than you used to. There’s no proof, but it doesn’t take proof to feel it. So he’s just… trying, in the only way that he knows how. He’s trying to make you remember the reasons why you chose him in the first place, trying to be softer, more attentive; kinder.
Not because he thinks that it’ll fix it, but because he wants to leave you with good memories, if he’s right. If this is the end. If this is the part where you say that you’ve outgrown him.
“I could run you a bath?” he offers, quietly, grasping at straws; trying to make you feel better, more secure, more solid with him, and you just blink at him. “Just thought it might help,” he stammers when you don’t reply, “you seem…”
Distant. Angry. Upset. Like you’re about to break my heart.
“...tired.”
You hesitate, not sure how to respond, and he sees it, watching you weigh the offer; what it means, what it might cost you, what it might entail. He watched you intently, waiting for you to decline the offer, choosing to go to bed instead, give him the cold shoulder again, sleep through the night as far away from him on the bed as possible. Instead, you nod.
“Yeah,” you say finally.
“That would be nice.”
You leave the room without another word, and Bob watches you walk down the hall, his throat tight with words he can’t say.
-----------------------------
The bath is quiet, calm, and lavender scented. The water hugs your body, warm and soft, but you can’t relax. The tension in your shoulders won’t dissipate. You keep thinking of the way that Bob had looked at you when you’d said yes; as if you’d just thrown him a lifeline.
Like the smallest, simplest acceptance of care meant the world to him.
He’s scared, you realize.
And not because he doesn’t love you. But because he does, and he’s already halfway out the door, just waiting for the courage to say it.
You think of the softness in his voice. The tea. The flowers last Thursday. The way his hand brushed your back when he thought you were asleep. You press your hands to your face and try not to cry.
Don’t make this harder for him. Just give him something to remember.
-----------------------------
When you finally climb out of the bath and make your way to the bedroom to crawl into bed, he’s already there. All of the lights are off. His shoulders tense when you walk up to the bed, as if he’s bracing for impact. His back is to you.
“Hey,” you say softly, unsure if he’s awake, not wanting to wake him, if he’s asleep.
“Mmhmm.” His response is less of a hum and more of a strangled whimper. You pause, wondering whether to say anything at all.
“Thanks… for the bath.”
He nods, shoulders still tense; refusing to turn to you. You climb into the bed, reaching for him beneath the covers. You almost pull away, but push forward until your hand rests on his back.
You try not to notice the way that he flinches when your skin brushes his. There’s a short pause, and he takes in a shaking breath. He turns slowly, allowing you to curl against him, his arms coming around you almost on instinct.
Neither of you says anything. His heart is hammering so loud, you can feel it against your cheek. You almost whisper I love you, but bite it back.
Because if he says it too, it might sound like goodbye.
Bob lies awake, late into the night, long after your breathing evens out and he knows that you’re asleep.
He’s holding you, finally, but it feels like the end. It feels like you’re already halfway gone, that you’re trying to make this easier for him now.
As if you’re being sweet because you think he can’t handle the truth.
He buries his face in your hair, gripping you tighter, pulling you closer to him as you sleep. One more night, like this. One more night where he gets to pretend that everything might be okay.
One more night where he can pretend that you’re still his, that you still want him, that he’s enough for you.
He wants to ask you every question that’s been spinning through his head for the past several weeks.
Do you still love me?
Are you planning on leaving?
Is there somebody else that can give you everything that I can’t?
Have I done something wrong?
But he doesn’t ask. Because part of him already thinks he knows the answers. And if you say it out loud, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to take it.
-----------------------------
It’s Saturday morning.
Bob’s already awake and ready for the day when you shuffle into the kitchen in his oversized t-shirt. He has a pen in one hand, a grocery pad in the other, and two half-made lists laid out on the counter like he’s preparing for a strategy briefing. You rub your eyes.
“You’re up early.” He freezes in front of you, shoulders lifting, as if you’d struck him.
“I couldn’t sleep,” He murmurs, his voice is quiet to keep from shaking, his posture tight, as if he’s bracing for a blow. You glance at the lists.
“You making battle plans?” Please joke with me. He just shrugs, noncommittal. “Just groceries.” His voice is clipped. Short. Like he doesn’t trust himself to say anything more.
You peek over his shoulder. One list is things you need. The other is things that you like. The distinction makes your stomach twist.
“Do you want anything else?” he asks, voice still strained, not turning around. Your mind reels with all of the things that you want to say.
I want you to look at me like you used to.
I want to stop pretending we’re okay.
Instead, you shake your head.
“No. That’s fine.”
Bob picks up his keys a minute later, not looking at you once. Avoiding your gaze like it would burn him, forcing a curt nod, instead.
“I’ll be back in a bit.” You force a smile, not wanting to upset him.
“Drive safe.”
He pauses like he wants to say more. But then he just nods and leaves.The door clicks closed behind him, and the silence that follows is deafening.
Bob walks down the frozen foods aisle like a man carrying invisible weights. His shoulders droop, his face is mournful, slackjawed as he moves.
He grabs your favorite yogurt. The cereal that you like to eat when you’re sad. The dark chocolate that you turn your nose up at and pretend that you don’t like, even though he’s caught you sneaking it from the cabinet more than once. He’s not sure if you’ll even eat any of it.
He’s starting to think this is what people do before the end. Small kindnesses. Last comforts. Make the leaving hurt less. He closes his eyes for a moment, standing there in front of the freezer door, wishing that he knew what to do to keep you with him.
I’d do anything if I knew how to make her stay.
The groceries are already unpacked by the time you come into the kitchen again. You hadn’t bothered coming out of your room when you’d heard him come in. Bob already has everything put away, almost neurotic in his precision.
You thank him, voice barely audible. He nods, still not looking at you. “No problem.”
You both eat a lunch of leftovers at the counter, in deafening silence. The clink of your forks against the plates screech in the too-quiet space. The tension is palpable. Neither of you are even willing to look at the other.
“I was thinking that maybe we could watch something tonight,” Bob offers carefully, tensing subtly as he waits for your response. Your eyes flick up, landing on him briefly before moving quickly back to your plate.
“Okay.”
His shoulders drop, almost imperceptively. He nods gently, closing his eyes for a second before opening them again and looking down to his plate.
“What are you in the mood for?”
You shrug.
“Whatever you want.”
He hesitates, his fork screeching on the plate.
“Are you sure?” His tone is careful, as if he doesn’t want to press you too hard; doesn’t want to rock the boat, doesn’t want to make you upset.
You look at him, finally. Really look. And something in your face breaks his heart, because it’s the face of someone who’s already bracing for impact.
-----------------------------
It’s evening now. You stand stiff, folding laundry next to the bed. Bob is across the room, fiddling with a drawer on your dresser that won’t close all the way. You hold up one of his shirts.
“This one’s got a hole in the sleeve.” An observation. An invitation for a conversation. Anything to break the silence.
“I know,” he says, voice quiet. He doesn’t look at you, but he’s frozen where he sits by the dresser. “It’s fine.”
“I can patch it.” you offer, wishing he would turn his head to look at you. He shrugs. He still doesn’t look up.
“Don’t bother.” You pause, the shirt still in your hands.
“You love this one.”
He finally turns toward you. His face is tired. Sad.
“It doesn’t matter.”
You set the shirt aside. Neither of you says anything else.
-----------------------------
Bob cooks dinner that night. The silence between you hasn’t eased. If anything, it’s gotten even sharper. It’s a good meal, he’d made your favorite. He brings it to you gently, almost cautious as he offers it with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
You sit beside him on the couch, plates on your laps, a movie playing low in the background. You both eat quietly, no conversation. It tastes like comfort food. It tastes like grief.
Halfway through, you set your fork down and whisper,
“Why are you being so nice to me?” You try not to notice the way that Bob flinches. You don’t look at him.
“You’ve been… extra sweet lately. Doing all these little things.”
When he finally responds, his voice is low; almost guarded.
“You don’t want me to?”
“No, I do. It’s just…” You swallow.
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
The silence between you is razor-thin. He turns off the TV. Sets his plate down, opening his mouth to speak.
“I thought you were the one trying to tell me something.”
Your breath catches. He doesn’t move toward you, doesn’t reach for your hand.
“You’ve been different,” he says quietly.
“And I thought maybe… I don’t know. That I was losing you.” His voice is rough and slow, as if it would crack if he spoke any louder; as if he would break if he said it too quickly.
You laugh. It’s not joyful. It’s broken.
“I thought you were getting ready to leave.”
He blinks like you just punched him in the chest.
“What?” You look down at your lap.
“You’ve been treating me like something fragile. Like you’re trying to let me down easy.” He opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks stunned. Shaken.
“I thought if I just… stayed soft enough, sweet enough, you wouldn’t walk away,” you add.
Bob sinks into the couch beside you. His hands are shaking.
“I thought if I just held on a little tighter,” he says, “you wouldn’t let go.”
The silence that follows isn’t peaceful. It’s stunned. Shattered. You both sit in it, breathing the same air, but feeling miles apart.
-----------------------------
The bedroom is dark.
Too dark, somehow, even with the soft light from the hallway seeping in under the door. It casts a faint glow across the ceiling, pale and flickering, like the ghost of something warm that used to live here.
You lie on your side, facing the wall. Eyes open. Bob lies behind you, close—but not touching. His breath is steady. Controlled. Neither of you have spoken since dinner. You can still hear the echo of it in your head.
I thought if I held on tighter, you wouldn’t let go.
I thought if I was sweet enough, you wouldn’t walk away.
You should say something. You both should. But the air feels fragile. Like if you speak too loudly, the whole thing might shatter. So you stay still, breathing slowly; trying not to let your chest shake too much when your throat tightens again.
Bob stares at the back of your neck. He wants to reach for you. Wants to press his mouth to your shoulder and whisper I’m scared too.
But he doesn’t. Because the last time he got close, he saw the way your eyes went glassy.
Like it hurt to be loved by him.
So he lies there. Motionless. Listening to the silence as it stretches thin between you.
Your hands curl under the pillow. You squeeze your eyes shut and wonder if you’ll ever feel safe enough to sleep beside him again.
-----------------------------
Bob’s hands are covered in grease. His head is under the nose of a jet. But his mind hasn’t been there all day. Phoenix crouches beside him, sipping from a metal water bottle. She watches him for a while before speaking.
“You keep forgetting steps,” she says lightly. “You almost left a torque wrench in the nacelle.” Bob doesn’t respond.
“You’re never this sloppy,” she adds, trying to get a reaction. Finally, a sigh.
“I’m just tired.”
“You haven’t slept,” she counters, pointing out the obvious as if that would make him talk. Still no answer. Phoenix leans her arms onto her knees.
“Want to talk about it?”
Bob exhales slowly. “It’s not… I don’t know if there’s anything to talk about.”
She raises an eyebrow. “That bad?”
He wipes his hands on a rag. “I think she’s leaving.” Phoenix’s face softens, and she waits.
“I don’t have proof,” he continues. “She hasn’t said it. But I can feel it. She’s different. She looks at me like she’s already somewhere else.”
“Maybe she’s scared,” Phoenix offers gently.
Bob shakes his head. “No. She’s being sweet. Like she’s trying to spare me. That’s worse.”
Phoenix hesitates. “Have you asked her?” Bob lets out a bitter laugh.
“No. Because if I do and I’m right… I don’t think I can handle hearing it out loud.”
He looks up at her finally. His eyes are tired. Raw.
“I don’t want to let her go,” he says. “But I don’t want to make her stay if she doesn’t want to.” Phoenix doesn’t give advice. She just leans forward, sets a hand on his shoulder.
“Then you better figure out which it is before you both start packing without even saying it.”
-----------------------------
The bar is closed. Sunlight pours through the blinds, casting slatted shadows across the wood floors. You sit at the counter with your fingers wrapped around a lukewarm cup of coffee. Penny moves behind the bar, sorting glasses.
“You okay?”
You nod. Lie.
“Yeah.” She gives you a look, pointed enough to say, I know that you’re lying to me. You shake your head, opening your mouth.
“I’m fine, just…” you trail off. “It’s Bob.” She doesn’t say I thought so, but it’s in her eyes.
“I think he’s going to leave,” you whisper. Penny pauses.
“Did he say that?” you shake your head, looking down into your coffee.
“No. But he doesn’t have to. I can feel it.”
She leans on the counter.
“Tell me.”
You hesitate, weighing your words.
“He’s been… kind. Too kind. Like he’s trying to make the goodbye less painful. He makes tea. Buys flowers. Cooks my favorite food. But it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like… guilt.”
“Have you asked him?” She asks, slowly continuing her task of wiping down the glasses behind the counter. You look away.
“I’m scared of the answer.” She hums quietly, wiping the same glass twice.
“Sometimes when people love each other too much, they start trying to protect each other from the truth—and end up drowning in silence instead.”
You nod slowly. “I keep trying to be perfect. Hoping if I’m easy enough to love, he’ll stay.”
“And maybe,” Penny says carefully, “he’s doing the exact same thing.” You look up at her.
And for the first time, the thought crosses your mind, what if this whole time… he’s been scared too?
-----------------------------
It’s late. You’re both at your apartment. The dishes are done, the laundry’s folded, the house is silent. You’re cold, and without thinking, you pull one of Bob’s hoodies from the back of the couch. It still smells like him—soap, skin, a hint of jet fuel. You pull it on, and your eyes prick with tears.
You used to wear this all the time. He used to tease you for stealing his clothes. Used to tug you into his lap when he caught you in them. Now he just watches from the doorway of the bedroom, eyes dark and unreadable.
“You cold?” he asks. You freeze, looking away.
“Yeah.”
He nods. Doesn’t offer to warm you. Doesn’t come closer. You sit down on the couch, hands tucked into the sleeves, and he disappears into the kitchen. A minute later, you hear the low thud of the dryer opening, then closing.
He comes back with a blanket, carefully setting it on the couch beside you. He tenses for a moment, as if he’s trying to decide if he should sit down, then goes to the other chair.
You cover yourself with the blanket and pretend you didn’t notice the way his hands shook when he set it down.
-----------------------------
Bob leaves early the next morning. You don’t hear him get ready, or feel him kiss your forehead goodbye, if he even had. When you finally stumble into the kitchen, there’s a note stuck to the fridge in his handwriting.
Early flight rotation. Back late. Don’t wait up for me if you’re tired. There’s leftovers in the fridge. I put the garlic bread in foil for you. Love you.
You stare at the words for a long time. The love you at the end feels like a footnote. Like a whisper thrown over the shoulder.
You set the note down and walk away.
That night, you call him around 8:30. It rings. No answer. You text. Hey, just checking if you’re okay.
No reply. Your mind spirals; fast.
Maybe he’s ignoring you.
Maybe he’s not coming home at all.
Maybe he’s with someone else and can’t pick up.
When the door finally clicks open after 10, you’re curled up on the couch, eyes raw, phone still in your hand.
Bob steps in, looking exhausted. He pauses when he sees you.
“You didn’t answer,” you say quietly. He blinks.
“I didn’t hear it.”
You nod. Bob steps closer, slow, cautious.
“I’m sorry.”
You nod again.
He stands there like he wants to say more. Like he wants to fall to his knees and tell you he’s not going anywhere. But all he says is, “did you eat?” You shake your head. He exhales, slowly, and disappears into the kitchen.
You hear the microwave beep, the quiet clink of silverware. He brings you a plate. You eat without tasting it. He watches without eating at all.
-----------------------------
It starts with a name. A text, face-down on the counter. You weren’t trying to snoop—but the screen lights up just as you’re setting your mug down.
Marley – 5:02 p.m.
I meant what I said. Please don’t ghost me again.
You freeze. Your stomach drops so hard that it knocks the breath out of you. You stare at the name, at the message, at the punctuation that feels too familiar. You don’t know who Marley is. You don’t know why they’d be begging him not to ghost them. And you sure as hell don’t know why your heart feels like it’s cracking in two.
Bob walks into the room moments later, tugging his sweatshirt over his head. His hair’s damp from a shower.
“Hey,” he says, and then pauses when he sees your face, and that you’re holding his phone. You don’t say anything. You just hand it to him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. You open your mouth. Close it.
“You got a text,” you say, voice paper-thin. His face shifts.
“From who?” You chuckle, shaking your head and looking away.
“Marley.”
He freezes.
You see it—the flicker of guilt. Or maybe just surprise. But it’s enough.
“Forget it,” you say, brushing past him. “Doesn’t matter.”
Panic rises in his throat as he reaches his and out to you and you step out of his reach. “Wait,” he says quietly, chest tightening as you move further from him.
“I’m tired,” you say. “I’m going to bed.”
He doesn’t follow.
-----------------------------
You don’t sleep. You lie in bed with your back to the door, fists clenched under the blanket, eyes burning. The door creaks open around 1:00 a.m., and Bob steps in. His voice is low.
“You want to talk?” You don’t answer.
He sighs. Sits on the edge of the bed.
“It’s not what you think,” he whispers. That makes you turn to face him.
“What am I supposed to think?” You snap, voice coming out more harshly than you’d intended. He looks wrecked.
“She’s an old friend. We dated in college. She reached out. I didn’t answer her the first time. That message was about that.”
“You didn’t tell me about her.”
“There was nothing to tell.”
You sit up, anger starting to eclipse the ache.
“Someone begging you not to ghost them doesn’t sound like nothing.”
He flinches. “I didn’t reply.”
“But you saw her message. You read it. And you didn’t say anything.” Bob’s mouth opens. Closes.
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
You let out a sharp, bitter laugh.
“Right. Just like you didn’t think it mattered that I’ve been falling apart in front of you and you haven’t said a damn word.”
His voice cracks. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to try,” you snap. “I want you to fight for this. For me.”
“I have been trying,” he says, louder now, “I’ve been trying for weeks and it feels like I’m screaming into a void.” You blink, stunned.
“I’ve been loving you so hard I forgot how to breathe,” Bob continues, voice shaking. “And every time I look at you, I think… this is it. This is the last time. This is the last night I get to hold her. The last time she says my name.”
Your throat closes up. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re gone,” he says, broken.
“You’ve been gone for weeks and you’re still sleeping in my bed.”
You both fall silent. Breathing hard. Staring at each other like strangers. Finally, you say it.
“I thought you were going to leave me.”
Bob swallows hard, shaking his head. “I thought you already had.”
-----------------------------
The house is quiet the next morning. Not the comforting kind of quiet, but the kind that feels like an empty stage after the actors have left. You sit at the kitchen table with your hands around a mug of tea that you still haven’t touched.
Bob stands across from you, arms crossed, shoulders hunched like he’s still bracing for impact. Neither of you slept. His eyes are red. Yours are swollen. Finally, you say,
“I’m not leaving.” His jaw tightens. He nods, slow.
“Okay.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I don’t want you to either.”
Another silence. This one feels sharper than the last.
“I’m sorry,” you add, voice cracking. “About the phone. About thinking—”
“No,” he cuts in gently. “You had every right. I should’ve said something. I just…” He exhales. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”
You look down. “It’s already worse.”
He walks around the table. Hesitates. Then sits beside you.
He doesn’t touch you. But he’s close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that when he finally does reach for your hand, you don’t pull away. Your fingers curl into his automatically. It’s the smallest, saddest peace treaty.
He leans his forehead against your temple, breathing deeply. You sit there together like that, still broken; but quiet. Still afraid. Still pretending that maybe this was the worst of it.