Are we really over?-part1 || Jeon Jungkook
Five months after breaking up, you and Jungkook are no longer lovers — just parents doing their best for your daughter. But co-parenting blurs lines, and unresolved love doesn’t fade quietly.
Between shared dinners, late-night FaceTimes, and misunderstandings that cut too deep, old feelings resurface where they were never meant to.
Some love stories don’t end. They just pause — waiting to be confronted.
𐙚 Genre: parents au, exes to lover, soft-angst,slow-burn, emotional slice of life
𐙚 Pairing: Jungkook x Reader
𐙚 Warnings: Emotional Angst, Breakup Aftermath, Misunderstandings, Child Involved (co-parenting themes), Mild Emotional Distress
That’s how long it had been since the words we’re done were spoken out loud. Since boxes were packed, tears were swallowed, and love was folded away like something fragile—something that would shatter if handled wrong.
Yet somehow… Jungkook never really left.
He stands in your doorway now, jacket still on, like he hasn’t decided whether he belongs here or not.
“Her shoes are on the wrong feet again,” he says gently, crouching in front of your daughter as he fixes them. His fingers are careful. Familiar.
The same hands that once held your face like it was precious.
Mila—your daughter—is staying with him for a little while. It’s his turn to have her.
“She likes it that way,” you reply, leaning against the kitchen counter with your arms crossed. “Says it makes her faster.”
Jungkook huffs out a quiet laugh before he even realizes it.
God. That laugh still does something to you.
Mila giggles as he lifts her effortlessly, planting a kiss on her cheek. She smells like baby shampoo and crayons and the kind of love that makes heartbreak complicated.
“Daddy, are you staying for dinner?” she asks, stuffed bunny clutched in one hand as she wraps the other arm around his neck.
The question hangs in the air.
Jungkook’s eyes flick to you. Just for a second—long enough to say everything he won’t say out loud.
“Mmm… if Mommy says it’s okay,” he answers carefully.
“Please, Mommy,” Mila pouts, eyes wide and pleading. “Can Daddy stay?”
You know she misses him. Every night she asks for her dad.
And when she’s with him, she asks for you.
The change has been hard on her.
You hate that you’re the reason.
Boundaries. Healing. Moving on.
But Mila looks at you like you’re the only thing standing between her and happiness.
So instead, you nod. “He can stay.”
Something shifts in Jungkook’s expression—relief, maybe. Or regret. Or hope. You don’t let yourself name it.
Five months broken up, and yet here you are. Sharing school schedules. Doctor appointments. Late-night texts about fevers and nightmares. Pretending your heart doesn’t race every time you hear his voice.
You tell yourself this is all for your daughter.
You don’t know if you still love him.
You just know that every time he leaves, the apartment feels too quiet.
And every time he comes back—for her—you wonder if this is really the end—or just the pause before something starts again.
Later, Jungkook sits on the floor of Mila’s room, listening intently as she talks about her Barbies like it’s the most important thing in the world.
You watch from the hallway.
And for a moment—just a moment—it looks like a life you almost kept.
You lean against the wall, arms wrapped around yourself, afraid the moment might disappear if you breathe too loud.
Jungkook sits cross-legged on the floor, tiny plastic shoes scattered everywhere, holding a Barbie delicately between his fingers as Mila explains their entire lives—who’s married, who’s fighting, who stole whose dream house.
He nods along like it matters.
Like she matters more than anything.
“And this one,” Mila says seriously, pointing, “is the mommy. She’s sad.”
Jungkook’s smile falters. Just a little. “Why’s she sad, baby?”
“’Cause the daddy doesn’t live with her anymore.”
He doesn’t look at you, but you feel it anyway—the weight of it pressing into the room. He swallows, then gently sets the Barbie down.
“Sometimes,” he says carefully, “grown-ups live in different houses. But they still love each other. And they always love their kid. Always.”
Mila thinks about that, bunny tucked under her chin. “So you still love Mommy?”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
The pause is too long. Heavy. Honest.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “Very much.”
Your throat tightens. You turn away before either of them can see the tears burning your eyes.
You don’t know if that answer was for her… or for you.
You busy yourself in the kitchen—straightening a counter that’s already clean, wiping a spot that doesn’t exist. Anything to keep your hands from shaking.
From the hallway, you hear Mila giggle again. Bright. Pure. Unaware of how broken things really are.
You remember when Jungkook used to sit on the floor like that every night. When this house still felt full. When you thought love was enough.
You exhale slowly and pull ingredients from the fridge on autopilot. Pasta. Something easy. Something that doesn’t require thinking.
You feel him before you hear him.
Jungkook leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you move like it’s still allowed.
You shake your head. “I’ve got it.”
He doesn’t argue. He never does anymore. Instead, he sets the table like muscle memory never broke.
Mila chatters as Jungkook lifts her into her chair, cutting her food without being asked. You pass the sauce without looking at him.
“So,” Mila says brightly, twirling pasta onto her fork, “Daddy, Mommy makes better spaghetti than you.”
You snort before you can stop yourself.
Jungkook grins. “Wow. Betrayal.”
For a split second, it’s easy. Natural. Like nothing ever ended.
Then Mila looks between you. “Why don’t you eat together like before?”
Jungkook stiffens beside you.
“That was a long time ago, baby,” you say gently.
“Oh,” she murmurs. “I liked it.”
You swallow the lump in your throat.
Dinner drags on longer than it should—tiny bites, endless stories—like Mila knows what comes next. Like she’s trying to stretch time until it breaks.
You catch Jungkook watching her with that look. The one that says he hates this part as much as you do.
After dinner Mila insists on Dessert, ice cream. Sprinkles. Too many sprinkles.
Jungkook lets her put some on his nose, and you laugh—actually laugh—before remembering you’re not supposed to.
The sound fades too quickly.
Later, as Mila brushes her teeth, Jungkook rinses dishes beside you.
“Thank you for letting me stay,” he says quietly.
You nod. “She needed it.”
Mila grabs her stuffed bunny again and asks. “Daddy, can I show you my Barbies again before we go?” She pleads.
You can tell she doesn’t want to leave. Not you. Not him. She doesn’t want either of you to be alone.
Jungkook hesitates. Just for a second. Then he nods. “Okay. Five minutes.”
You stand in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, listening to their muffled laughter from the bedroom—soft, familiar sounds that no longer belong to you.
When they return, Mila’s already in her jacket. Too small now. You make a mental note to buy a bigger one.
“I’ll bring her back Sunday night,” Jungkook says quietly, reaching for her backpack.
You nod. “Her inhaler’s in the side pocket.”
Mila hugs you tight, face pressed into your stomach. “I’ll miss you, Mommy.”
Your chest tightens. “I’ll miss you too, baby.”
She pulls back, looks between you and Jungkook. “Can you come with us?”
The question hits like a punch.
You crouch in front of her, forcing a smile that hurts your cheeks. “Not tonight. But Daddy’s gonna take really good care of you.”
He meets your eyes over her head. Steady. Serious. “I promise.”
She nods, then takes his hand.
You walk them to the door.
Jungkook pauses there, keys in hand, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Of the apartment. Of this life.
“She’ll call if she wants to,” he says.
Their fingers are already intertwined when he opens the door.
Mila waves. “Night, Mommy!”
The silence that follows is different this time.
You lock the door, press your forehead against it, and exhale shakily.
This—this—is the part no one talks about.
Not the breakup. Not the fighting.
The moment you have to watch your child walk away with the person you still love…
Jungkook doesn’t start the car right away.
Mila’s already buckled in the backseat, bunny tucked under her chin, eyes fixed on the window like she’s memorizing the shape of the building. The same building he just walked out of. The same door that closed a little too loud behind him.
He grips the steering wheel until his knuckles ache.
This part never gets easier.
“Daddy?” Mila’s voice is small. Careful. “Mommy’s gonna be okay, right?”
“Yeah, baby,” he says, forcing the words out steady. “She’s okay.”
He pulls out of the parking spot, the apartment shrinking in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t look for long. If he does, he knows he’ll want to turn around.
The silence in the car is heavy—different from the comfortable kind it used to be. Mila hums softly to herself, kicking her feet, trying to be brave in the way only kids are.
Jungkook hates himself for this part most of all.
For making her learn how to split her heart.
He stops at a red light and exhales shakily, forehead dropping forward for half a second before he straightens again. He can’t fall apart—not now. Not with her watching.Not with her inside this car.
He thinks about you standing at the door. The way you smiled for Mila but not for him. The way your eyes looked tired. Lonely.
Still beautiful. Still home.
He shouldn’t have said it.
But lying to her felt worse than telling the truth.
“Daddy,” Mila says again, softer now. “Why don’t you live with Mommy?”
His throat tightens. He swallows.
“Because Daddy made some mistakes,” he answers honestly. “And Mommy needed space.”
The question lands like a punch to the chest.
He nods, even though she can’t see it. “Yeah. I miss her a lot.”
Mila is quiet for a moment. Then: “I miss when we were all together.”
He pulls into traffic, city lights blurring as his eyes burn. He blinks hard, forcing it down.
At another stoplight, he checks the rearview mirror. Mila’s eyelids are drooping now, exhaustion finally winning. She looks peaceful. Safe.
That’s the only thing keeping him upright.
When he finally pulls into his driveway, he carries her inside carefully, like she might break. She curls into him instinctively, face pressed into his neck.
After he tucks her into bed, after the lights are dim and the door is cracked open just the way she likes it, Jungkook sits alone on the edge of his couch.
He pulls his phone out without thinking, thumb hovering over your name. He doesn’t text. He never does. He knows better.
Instead, he stares at the screen until it goes dark.
He leans back, covers his face with his hands, and lets the regret sink in—heavy and unforgiving.
Loving you was never the hard part.
was the mistake he doesn’t know how to live with.
Jungkook sinks into the couch, shoulders heavy, head leaning back against the cushions. The apartment is quiet now—too quiet. Mila’s bedroom door is slightly closed, her soft, even breathing drifting through the gap. She’s asleep. Safe. Peaceful.
He runs a hand through his hair, gripping the armrest until his knuckles turn white. His chest feels tight, like it might cave in at any moment.
“I ruined it,” he whispers to the empty room. The words sound weak, swallowed by the silence. “I ruined everything.”
It wasn’t love that ended things between you and him. That part had never wavered. He loved you too much. Maybe too much to see straight.
But love… isn’t always enough.
He remembers the fights. The tension that built like a storm, the pride that made him shut down instead of opening up. The jealousy he never admitted, the stubbornness he never apologized for. The nights he chose work over you, excuses over honesty.
“I wasn’t ready,” he admits quietly, voice breaking. “I wasn’t ready to be the man you needed. To be the partner… the one you deserved.”
He thinks back to the night it all ended—the fight that should have been solved with words instead of walls. You had said, I can’t do this anymore. And he… he hadn’t fought hard enough.
“I could’ve been better,” he whispers, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve loved you without holding back, without letting my fear… without letting myself ruin us.”
He lets out a harsh, uneven breath, tears blurring his vision. He hates himself for the timing of everything, for the choices he made that tore your lives apart.
He thinks about the little things from tonight—your laugh when Mila put sprinkles on his nose, the way you leaned in to straighten her hair, the soft way you talked to her. He remembers how alive the apartment felt when you were all together.
He wants that back. Desperately.
But he knows the truth. He and you… you can’t just go back. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“I love her,” he murmurs to himself, voice cracking. “I love her so much… and I lost the one I shouldn’t have.”
He leans back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. The tears slide down his face, silent and unrelenting.
Outside, the city hums on, unaware of the regret sitting in this little apartment. Inside, Jungkook is just a man who loves too much, broke too easily, and has to live with the consequences.
The apartment feels wrong the second the door closes.
You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, keys still in your hand, listening to nothing. No little footsteps. No soft humming from the living room. No Jungkook clearing his throat like he always did when he didn’t know what to say.
You lock the door and lean your forehead against it, breathing out slowly, like if you don’t do it carefully you might break.
Mila’s room is the worst part.
You pass it on the way to the kitchen and instinctively glance inside. The bed is made. Too neat. Bunny missing. The faint smell of her shampoo still lingers, like proof she was here and then suddenly wasn’t.
You make tea you won’t finish and sit on the couch, curling your legs beneath you. The spot next to you is empty. It always is now. Still, your body hasn’t learned yet.
For half a second, your heart jumps.
You let the screen go dark and stare at it anyway, like maybe if you wait long enough his name will appear.
You think about him driving away. About Mila in the backseat,
You shouldn’t think about the way he looked at you tonight. Careful. Regretful. Like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing and losing you all over again.
You hug a pillow to your chest and exhale shakily.
“I’m doing the right thing,” you whisper to the empty room.
You repeat it like a promise.
Because doing the right thing shouldn’t feel this lonely.
You stand and wander into the bedroom, opening drawers you don’t need to open, straightening clothes that don’t need fixing. Avoiding the bed for as long as you can.
When you finally sit, the weight hits you all at once.
This was the side you used to sleep on.
You lie back and stare at the ceiling, eyes burning.
You remember the last fight—the real one. The one where you begged him to listen, to stay, to choose you without hesitation. The way he shut down instead. The way silence did more damage than shouting ever could.
“I needed you,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I still did.”
Your chest tightens, grief pressing in from all sides.
You don’t miss the arguments.
You miss the way he made the world feel less heavy when he tried.
You roll onto your side and finally let the tears come, quiet and ugly, soaking into the pillow. You bite your lip to keep from making a sound, like he might hear you through walls and distance and guilt.
“I still love you,” you admit to no one.
The words don’t change anything.
You fall asleep that way—curled around emptiness, heart split between the man you let go and the child you had to.
And somewhere across the city, without knowing it, Jungkook stares at his phone too.
Sunlight spills through the curtains in thin, pale lines, landing across the couch where Jungkook spent half the night awake. He blinks, disoriented, before memory settles in all at once.
He pushes himself up just as her bedroom door creaks open.
“Daddy?” she whispers, rubbing her eyes, bunny dragging along the floor behind her.
He’s on his feet instantly. “Hey, baby.”
She walks straight into his arms like it’s instinct, like she’s been doing it her whole life. He lifts her easily, pressing a kiss into her hair and breathing her in.
“Did you sleep okay?” he asks.
She nods, then pauses. “Mommy didn’t come.”
His chest tightens, but he keeps his voice steady. “Mommy’s at home. Remember? It’s Daddy’s weekend.”
“Oh.” She thinks about that, then rests her head against his shoulder. “Okay.”
Breakfast is pancakes—slightly uneven, a little too brown on one side—but Mila doesn’t care. She sits on the counter in her pajamas, swinging her feet while he flips them.
“You make funny shapes,” she giggles.
“That one’s a dinosaur,” he says confidently.
He laughs despite himself. Real, warm, and brief.
They eat together at the small kitchen table. Mila tells him about a dream she had where all three of you lived in a pink house with a big yard and a dog that talked.
Jungkook smiles and nods, even as his chest aches.
After breakfast, they end up on the living room floor. Coloring books. Crayons everywhere. Mila insists on drawing your family.
She draws three stick figures.
One tall. One with long hair. One small in the middle.
She adds hearts. A lot of them.
“Who’s that?” Jungkook asks gently, pointing.
“That’s Mommy,” she says easily. “And you. And me.”
He swallows. “That’s nice.”
She looks up at him. “Are we still a family?”
The question is innocent. Curious. Not meant to hurt.
“Yes,” he answers after a moment. “We’re just… a different kind of family right now.”
She nods like that makes sense. Kids are better at accepting broken things than adults.
Later, they get dressed to go to the park. Jungkook ties her shoes—on the correct feet this time—and watches her race ahead of him, laughter echoing through the air.
Other parents watch. Couples. Families.
He doesn’t let himself look too long.
At the park, Mila climbs and runs and laughs like nothing in the world is wrong. Jungkook pushes her on the swings, higher and higher, until she shrieks with joy.
“Okay, okay,” he laughs, arms aching, heart full and breaking at the same time.
As she swings, he pulls out his phone without thinking.
Your name is right there.
But for the first time that morning… he almost does.
Morning feels wrong without Mila.
You wake up automatically at the time she usually crawls into bed with you, hair in your face, bunny shoved between you. Your arm reaches out before your brain catches up.
You sit up slowly, staring at the small dent in the mattress that’s already fading. The apartment is too quiet again—no cartoons humming, no tiny footsteps, no soft Mommy from the doorway.
You move through the morning on autopilot. Coffee. Toast you don’t finish. You pass by the entryway and your eyes land on the hook where Mila’s jacket usually hangs.
And suddenly you remember last night. The way it barely zipped. The sleeves that stopped too short at her wrists.
“She’s growing so fast,” you murmur to yourself.
The thought hits you all at once: She needs a new jacket.
The idea gives you purpose—something to do with the ache instead of just sitting in it. You grab your keys and head out, convincing yourself it’s practical. Normal. A mom thing.
The kids’ store smells like cotton and detergent. Soft. Safe. You run your fingers over tiny coats, checking sizes, colors Mila would like.
Pink is her favorite right now. With stars.
You smile sadly as you lift one from the rack. “She’d love this.”
You imagine her wearing it. Jungkook zipping it up. The thought makes your chest hurt in that quiet way you’re getting used to.
You take the jacket to the register, holding it close like it already belongs to her.
On your way out, you spot the café across the street. The same one you and Jungkook used to take Mila to on Sunday mornings.
You don’t know why you look.
And that’s when you see him.
Jungkook stands just inside the store next door—the kids’ clothing section—holding a jacket in his hands.
Because there’s a woman standing in front of him.
She’s close. Too close. Laughing softly, head tilted toward him in a way that feels familiar. Comfortable. Like she belongs there.
Your fingers tighten around the shopping bag.
You don’t hear what they’re saying. You don’t see the jacket he’s holding. All you see is the way she touches his arm lightly when she laughs.
Something sharp twists in your chest.
You take a step back before either of them can notice you.
You tell yourself you have no right to feel this way.
Jungkook stands in the kids’ section, staring at the rack of jackets like it’s a puzzle he’s failing. Mila stands beside him playing with all the clothes that stands on the rack.
“Why are there so many sizes?” He mumbles
He lifts one off the hanger, frowning. Mila had complained about her sleeves riding up at the park. He should’ve noticed sooner.
“This one’s cute,” a voice says.
“Oh—” He blinks in surprise. “Hey.”
The woman smiles easily. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
It’s someone from his past. Not recent. Not that past—but familiar enough. Someone who knew him before everything broke.
“My daughter ,” he says quickly, holding up the jacket. “I’m, uh… shopping for her.”
Mila peeps around her dad’s leg and he brushes her hair softly.
She laughs softly and squats down to her level.
“Hello” Mila hides again shyly from the lady.
She stands back up and looks directly at jungkook
“You always were bad at choosing clothes.”
They make small talk. Safe talk. She gestures to a different jacket, pointing out the size tag. He nods, grateful for the help but distracted, thoughts still stuck on Mila. On you.
He doesn’t notice the way she steps closer.
Doesn’t see the moment you pause across the street.
“Congrats, by the way,” she says. “Being a dad suits you.”
“Thanks,” he replies quietly. “She’s… everything.”
He smiles—but it’s tired. Fond. Not the kind that means more.
He pays for the jacket, thanks her politely, and steps outside, phone already in his hand.
Your name hovers on the screen again.
He doesn’t know that across the street, you’ve already turned away—heart heavy with a picture you didn’t have context for.
And just like that, something fragile shifts.
The word pulls him out of his thoughts instantly.
Mila kicks her feet lightly in her car seat, eyes bright through the rearview mirror. “I want McDonald’s.”
He smiles automatically. “You do?”
She nods enthusiastically. “Chicken nuggets and Happy Meal.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he starts the car. “You know you don’t have to say both, right? It’s the same thing.”
She gasps, offended. “Nooo. I want chicken nuggets and a Happy Meal.
He laughs louder this time. “Alright, alright. Can’t argue with that logic.”
They pull into the drive-thru not even ten minutes later. Mila narrates the entire process like it’s an event, pointing at the menu, reminding him not to forget the apple slices.
“You want a toy?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says seriously. “But not a boy toy.”
When he hands her the box, she lights up like it’s Christmas, immediately rummaging through it for the nuggets. By the time they’re back on the road, she’s happily chewing, crumbs dotting her jacket.
He glances back at her, heart squeezing.
He should change her jacket when they get home.
She nods, mouth full. “Mhmm.”
At home, he helps her out of her seat, wipes her hands, and lets her choose her favorite show. She settles onto the couch with her bunny, legs tucked under her, utterly content.
The TV fills the room with bright colors and cheerful music.
Jungkook sinks onto the couch beside her, exhaustion finally catching up. He watches her more than the screen — the way she hums along, the way her eyes droop just slightly when she gets comfortable.
For a moment, everything is quiet.
But his phone buzzes in his pocket, and without even checking it, he thinks of you.
Of the strange heaviness in his chest he can’t shake.
He has no idea you saw him.
No idea that while his daughter eats her nuggets and laughs at the TV, you’re somewhere else, replaying a moment that meant nothing to him…
Bedtime sneaks up faster than he expects.
Mila’s movements slow, her energy fading in that gentle way kids do when they’re trying to stay awake longer than their bodies will allow. She drags her bunny by one ear as she pads into the kitchen, climbing onto the stool like it takes more effort than usual.
“Daddy,” she murmurs, rubbing her eyes. “Can you make me a banana milkshake?”
“Of course,” he says softly. “You sit right there, okay?”
She nods, chin resting in her hands as she watches him peel the banana. He moves carefully, quietly — the blender only pulsed once, just enough to mix everything without startling her.
When he sets the cup in front of her, she smiles. A small one. Tired. Sweet.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
He watches her sip it slowly, her legs swinging less and less, until finally she sighs.
The words land heavier than he’s ready for.
He keeps his face calm. Gentle. Like he practiced. “Yeah?”
She nods, eyes glossy. “I like when she tucks me in.”
“Do you want to talk to her?” he asks, carefully. “Just for a little bit?”
Her head lifts immediately. “Can I?”
“Yeah,” he says, already reaching for his phone. “I think Mommy would like that.”
He FaceTimes you before he can overthink it.
He shifts closer to Mila, angling the phone so she’s in frame, thumb hovering anxiously.
Then your face appears on the screen.
For a split second, he forgets how to breathe.
You look tired. Soft. Like the day took more out of you than you wanted to admit.
“Mila?” you say, surprise melting instantly into warmth.
“MOMMY!” she squeals, nearly dropping her cup as she leans into the screen.
You laugh — that laugh — and Jungkook feels something crack open in his chest.
“There’s my girl,” you say. “What are you doing?”
“I’m having banana milkshake!” she announces proudly. “Daddy made it!”
Your eyes meet his through the screen, and for a second, it’s like the space between houses disappears.
“He always makes it best,” you say quietly.
His throat tightens. “I try.”
Mila yawns hard, resting her head against his side. You notice immediately.
“Someone’s sleepy,” you murmur.
“She fought it,” he admits softly.
Mila pouts weakly. “I didn’t.”
You smile gently. “You wanna tell Mommy goodnight?”
She nods, lifting the phone closer to her face. “Goodnight, Mommy. I love you.”
Your voice catches. He hears it.
“I love you more than anything,” you whisper. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”
She nods, already drifting.
Jungkook watches your face as you watch her.
Two people loving the same small human from opposite sides of something broken.
When he ends the call, the silence feels heavier — but warmer too.
He lifts Mila carefully, milkshake forgotten on the counter, and carries her to bed.
As he tucks her in, he thinks about how easy it felt to call you.
And how terrifying that is.
Because loving you never stopped.
He just learned how to live with the ache.
One minute she’s murmuring something about her bunny, the next her breathing evens out, lashes resting against her cheeks. Jungkook stays beside her longer than necessary, hand resting lightly on her back like she might disappear if he moves too soon.
He straightens her blanket. Tucks the bunny under her arm.
“Goodnight, baby,” he whispers.
He closes the door halfway, leaving it cracked like he always does, then sinks onto the couch with a quiet exhale. The apartment feels different at night. Smaller. Too still.
His phone rests in his palm before he realizes he picked it up.
The last message sits there like a line he never crossed.
Jungkook: She fell asleep. Thank you for talking to her.
It would be harmless. Polite. Normal. Parents say goodnight.
But his chest tightens anyway.
Because he knows if he sends it, he’ll wait for your reply. And if you reply, he’ll want more. Another message. Another moment. Another excuse to stay connected beyond Mila.
He exhales sharply and locks the phone.
He sets it facedown on the table like it burned him and leans back, staring at the ceiling.
Loving you quietly is the only way he knows how to survive this.
The apartment is too quiet after the call ends.
You sit there longer than you mean to, phone still in your hand, thumb brushing over the dark screen like she might call back. Like her face might reappear if you wish hard enough.
You stand, wander into the kitchen, rinse a mug you never used. The silence presses in — familiar now, but still cruel.
Your breath catches instantly.
You stare at it longer than you should.
Not thank you. Not she fell asleep. Just that.
Something about it makes your chest tighten, makes your thoughts spiral before you can stop them.
You imagine him typing. Hesitating. Wondering.
Then the image from the store flashes back — him smiling at that woman, standing close, holding a jacket.
You shake your head slightly, forcing the thought away.
Smiles don’t mean anything.
You tell yourself that a dozen times until it almost sticks.
You don’t reply right away.
You set the phone down, pace the room once, then come back and type.
You place the phone screen-down afterward like it might betray you if you keep looking.
Standing there alone, you press your arms around yourself, suddenly chilled.
You tell yourself he’s moved on.
You tell yourself you’re okay with that.
And maybe you believe it — at least enough to get through the night.
But when you finally crawl into bed, the space beside you feels wider than ever.
And you wonder — not for the first time — if the hardest part isn’t letting go…
But pretending you already have.
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Thanks for reading come back for part 2 !!
