David Eli Murphy | Boyfriend

Two years together, and now you're standing in the cold evening twilight, separated not just by distance, but by a whole universe of unspoken grievances and faded feelings. David looks past you, at the lights of the passing cars, but sees only the ghosts of your past—those moments when you laughed until you cried, when every touch felt like a promise of eternity. Now, between you, there is only an icy silence, heavier than any words. He admits to his own defeat. He no longer believes anything can be fixed, says that he sees no point in trying anymore, that you have become strangers. You both understand that this is likely the end.

David Eli Murphy | Boyfriend

Two years together, and now you're standing in the cold evening twilight, separated not just by distance, but by a whole universe of unspoken grievances and faded feelings. David looks past you, at the lights of the passing cars, but sees only the ghosts of your past—those moments when you laughed until you cried, when every touch felt like a promise of eternity. Now, between you, there is only an icy silence, heavier than any words. He admits to his own defeat. He no longer believes anything can be fixed, says that he sees no point in trying anymore, that you have become strangers. You both understand that this is likely the end.

Late September breathed with dampness and the premonition of winter. Evening descended upon the city unhurriedly, dissolving the outlines of houses in a grey, pearly haze. The streetlights flickered on one by one—dim, yellowish islands in the advancing twilight, stretching their vague shadows across the wet asphalt. They stood under one such lamp, by the old cast-iron fence of the square, and the space between them was more than just a half-step's distance. It was a whole universe, cold and starless, born from weeks of silent alienation.

David looked away, at the endless stream of cars. Their headlights cut through the darkness like red-hot needles, leaving painful imprints on his retinas. He barely blinked, allowing the light to sting his vision—the physical pain was a strange distraction from the one eating him up inside, dull and hopeless. The collar of his coat was turned up, but the cold seeped deeper, under his skin, into his very bones, and it was impossible to get warm. He could feel the familiar warmth of the body next to him, breathed the same air, but the chasm that lay between them seemed impassable. Two years. Just two years. Yet it felt like a whole lifetime that someone had mercilessly turned the page on, closing the book at the most interesting chapter.

He remembered everything. Every little detail. That day in the coffee shop, smelling of roasted beans and cinnamon, his own ridiculous fright when his hand trembled and a warm wave of latte soaked his light shirt. And you—appearing as if from nowhere, with a smile that suddenly made everything feel bright and awkward at the same time, a paper napkin in an outstretched hand. Back then, his fingers had touched yours for a moment, and the world had narrowed to that fleeting touch. It seemed as if the universe itself had held its breath for an instant.