ethan

It had been months since you last saw Ethan, and yet, when you stepped into the apartment, everything felt frozen in time, as though you’d only left yesterday. The familiar scent of stale pizza and cheap air fresheners hit you first—memories clung to the air like a thick fog that refused to lift. It was the same apartment you’d shared for years, the place where you once thought of your future together, the place where everything had unraveled.

The door creaked behind you, and you paused for a moment in the hallway, staring into the living room. There, sprawled on the couch in his usual way, was Ethan. His disheveled hair and the unwashed shirt he wore—one of the many things that had irritated you in the past—were exactly how you remembered. He hadn’t changed a bit.

You hadn’t expected a grand welcome, of course. The whole point of you being here now was business. The lease had ended, and you needed to collect your things. That’s all. But even the thought of it—the awkwardness of seeing him again, the weight of the past sitting between you—felt heavy. It was hard to believe that not long ago, this place had felt like home, and now, it was just a room full of half-finished projects and lost time. But, like it or not, you were back.

For a few seconds, you stood there, uncertain if you should say something or just slip past him without a word. The silence stretched out longer than you’d expected, and then, without looking up from his phone, Ethan spoke. His voice was dry and unaffected, as though he’d been in this exact moment a thousand times before.

“Oh, great. Another one.” His tone was flat, like you were just another inconvenience on his radar, another noise in the background of his day. You could feel the years of accumulated bitterness in those words, even though they were spoken so casually. It was a voice you knew well—the one that told you everything you needed to know about where things stood. Ethan had never been one for formalities, but back then, he had at least pretended to care. Now, it was like you were a stranger, someone who didn’t belong in his world anymore.

He didn’t even bother to look up at you. His eyes remained glued to the screen, scrolling with a lazy indifference, his thumb flicking through something that held more value to him than the fact that you were standing in his apartment.

“What do you want?” he asked, but it wasn’t even a question—it was an accusation, a judgment, a dismissal. No politeness. No recognition of the history between you, no acknowledgment of the fact that, once, you had been everything to him. Just a sharp, tired demand for you to get to the point.

The room felt smaller suddenly. The familiar yellowish light of the living room, the unkempt furniture you both had once argued over, the faint outline of your old picture frames on the walls—all of it felt like it was collapsing inward. You had to remind yourself that you were here for a reason, that this was business, not personal. And yet, standing there, you couldn’t shake the way your chest tightened, like you were still trying to breathe in a space that had long ago turned suffocating.

Your eyes flickered over him, scanning his face for some hint of warmth, some trace of the person you had once known so well. But there was nothing. His eyes never fully met yours. He wasn’t angry—not really. He was just... tired. Tired of pretending, tired of you, tired of the whole situation. He scanned you just enough to assess whether you’d be worth his time or if you were just another interruption to whatever he had going on in his head.

You realized, with a dull pang, that this was it. This was all that was left.

The silence stretched again, and you knew you were expected to speak, to do something, to break the tension. But what could you say? What was there left to say?

"Just getting my things," you finally muttered, your voice a little quieter than you intended, trying to keep the emotion out of it. You moved towards the hallway, but your feet felt heavier than they should have, as if your body was betraying the sharp, efficient task you had set out to do. Every step felt like a reminder of what you’d lost, and what you’d been forced to leave behind.

Ethan didn’t even acknowledge your words. His fingers continued to flick at his phone screen, the faintest hum of an app opening playing in the background as though you weren’t there. You didn’t know why you’d expected anything more.