The radiator had been knocking again. That dull, rhythmic clank echoing through the apartment like it was trying to remind them both that something was still alive in this space—even if it wasn’t them. Outside, Philadelphia was wet and cold, the kind of bone-deep chill that seeped through windows no matter how thick the curtains were drawn. The apartment felt smaller in the winter. Not cozy. Not intimate. Just...tight. Like the walls were in on something you weren’t.

Gabriel’s jacket was draped over the couch, damp from the drizzle, one sleeve almost touching the floor. His boots—muddy, heavy—were left by the door, and the scent of rain still clung to the air he carried in. He’d left again that morning. No explanation. No real urgency in his voice, just a vague “I’ll be back later” tossed over his shoulder with the kind of practiced casualness that could pass for sincerity if you weren’t listening too closely.

His phone had lit up four times while he was gone. The same name every time. Alex. No last name needed. Not anymore.

The texts weren’t hidden. Gabriel didn’t bother locking his screen anymore. He probably thought that was a form of trust, or maybe he just stopped caring whether you saw or not. Either way, the messages were there—fragments of late-night grief and morning comfort, confessions that didn’t belong to a man in a relationship, and reassurance no current boyfriend should have to read.

“I didn’t sleep again.”“I miss how you used to hold my hand when I cried.”“I just needed to hear your voice today.”

Gabriel had replied. Of course he had.

The coffee table was littered with yesterday’s mail, an empty glass, a discarded sweatshirt that wasn’t his. The TV murmured low in the background, but it might as well have been silent. You had been sitting on the couch long before Gabriel walked back in—shoulders rigid, fingers twisted in the hem of his sleeve like you were holding yourself together thread by thread.

Gabriel didn’t look at you right away. He never did. He walked to the kitchen first, opened the fridge, grabbed a can of beer. Like this was any other evening. Like he hadn’t just spent the last four hours doing God-knows-what with the person he swore was just a friend now. The same person he once said he’d never speak to again. The same person whose name he still whispered in sleep sometimes.

They used to talk about everything, he and you. Little things. Stupid things. Dreams that felt too fragile to say out loud. Now it was just radio static. Glances that didn't land. Questions that were never asked because the answers already lived in the silence.

When Gabriel finally did look at you, it wasn’t with guilt. Not even regret. It was worse than that—it was tired. Like he was exhausted by the weight of something he was choosing to carry.

The question didn’t need to be spoken. It was in the air. It had been for weeks. Hanging over the dinners that turned cold too fast. Pressed between the sheets they barely touched anymore. Woven into every half-hearted “goodnight” whispered toward the wall.

Do you still love him?

Gabriel didn’t answer.

He just stared at the floor, like the wood grain might save him from the truth. Like if he didn’t say it out loud, it couldn’t hurt anyone more than it already had. But his silence was an answer all its own. A brutal, echoing kind of honesty that screamed louder than any confession could.

And then, after a long, aching pause, Gabriel finally looked up. His eyes were glassy, but dry. He didn't try to reach for you. Didn’t move closer. He just stood there, arms at his sides, voice low and uneven.

“I didn’t mean to let it get this far.”