The apartment was too quiet without her voice. No playlists, no soft humming from the bathroom while she got ready, no scent of coconut shampoo in the air. Just the hum of the fridge and the thud of my footsteps across the same floor we used to argue on. I told myself I was fine. That the breakup was overdue. That Ava and I were just two people trying too hard to make something work that had already stopped breathing weeks ago. Still, the silence pressed down like humidity.
I tossed a crumpled shirt onto the couch, half on a pile of laundry that had been sitting there since before she left. The place looked exactly like the two of us lived here, except it was just me now. Gym shorts on the coffee table, protein shaker on the counter, a few takeout boxes pushed to one side of the sink. It wasn’t gross, just lived in. The kind of chaos that happens when two guys think they’re keeping things clean but never really finish the job.
Tyler’s sneakers were kicked under the dining chair. His gym bag leaned against the wall, open, the smell of deodorant and chalk and whatever body wash he used mixing faintly in the air. He was at the gym like always. I’d stopped going. Couldn’t stand running into anyone who’d ask about my ex girlfriend.
I opened the fridge, found a half-empty bottle of water, and leaned against the counter. My reflection stared back from the dark oven glass…hair sticking up, a week’s worth of scruff, shoulders a little smaller than they used to be when I played soccer every morning. I still had the lean definition, but not the drive that came with it. Ava used to trace her fingers down my chest like she was drawing on glass, and now even the thought of being touched felt strange.
The front door opened just as I took another sip. Tyler walked in shirtless with a towel slung over his shoulder, skin still shining from the gym.
“Yo Noah,” he said, voice casual, a little breathless. “You died or what? Haven’t seen you at the gym in three days.”
“Trying out this new routine,” I muttered. “It’s called emotional recovery and carbs.”
He grinned, teeth white against his tan. “Nice. Gains coming from potato chips now?”
“Among other things.”
He tossed the towel onto a chair and opened the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. He didn’t even look tired…his body had that permanent athletic looseness, muscles that moved easily under his skin, not forced or showy. Broad shoulders, swimmer build, the kind of chest that made T-shirts look too small. Tyler wasn’t tall, but he filled a room. His stubble caught the light when he looked at me.
“Did you at least text Coach back?” he asked between gulps. “He was asking if you’re coming back to morning sessions.”
I shrugged. “Told him I needed space. And he said something like ‘soccer doesn’t care about your feelings.’”
“Classic,” Tyler said, grinning. “You love that dude.”
“Love’s a strong word.”
We stood there in the kitchen, the silence between us heavy but familiar. It wasn’t awkward, just full. Tyler leaned against the counter beside me, close enough that I could smell his sweat. My shoulder brushed his arm when I reached for another bottle, and he didn’t move. He never really did.
“You good though?” he asked finally. “You’ve been quiet since the breakup.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
He said it lightly, but it landed deep. I stared at the bottle cap turning between my fingers. “She’s happier without me. That’s kind of the point.”
“That doesn’t mean you should just hide in here.”
“Who said I’m hiding?”
He glanced around the room, then back at me with that half smile that always bordered between teasing and sympathy. “Dude, your socks are in the sink.”
I looked. He was right. “Okay, fair.”
He laughed, and I felt something loosen in my chest for the first time all week. That laugh was always the thing that got me…low, careless, a little cocky. It filled up the empty apartment faster than any music could.
He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll get you out soon. Friday night maybe. Grab a drink, talk to someone who doesn’t have my face.”
“Hard pass.”
“You’ll survive. Girls love a sad guy.”
“Yeah, they loved me so much I got dumped.”
He shook his head, still smiling, then pushed off the counter. His back flexed when he stretched his arms over his head. My eyes caught the movement before I could stop them, the ripple of muscle under his skin, the faint trail of hair disappearing under his waistband. I looked away too late.
He noticed. I could tell by the pause, the half-second stillness before he grabbed his towel and slung it over his shoulder again.
“Anyway,” he said. “Shower time. Try not to die of self-pity before I’m back.”
“Not promising anything.”
“Good man.”
He disappeared down the hall, humming to himself. The sound of running water filled the apartment, and I exhaled slowly. My pulse had picked up for no reason I wanted to think about. It was just Tyler. My best friend. My roommate. The guy who’d been around for everything from soccer injuries to heartbreak. I was allowed to notice he looked good. Everyone noticed.
I sat on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through my phone. Her name flashed a few times in old messages. The words blurred. I shut it off, dropped it beside me, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling fan. The noise of the shower drifted through the hall, steady and rhythmic. It made the apartment feel smaller, warmer.
The breakup wasn’t just about her. I knew that. It had been coming for months. We’d stopped really touching except out of obligation, and when we did, I always ended up apologizing. Ava had said she didn’t care, but the way she looked at me afterward told the truth. I felt like I was constantly performing, failing, and pretending it was fine.
Tyler’s voice called from the bathroom. “You ordering food?”
“Maybe.”
“Get something with protein. No more pizza.”
“Noted.”
The shower cut off. I heard the curtain slide open, the sound of him moving around. My mind stayed blank until he walked back out, towel low on his hips, hair dripping. He smelled clean, skin still flushed from the hot water.
He grabbed a T-shirt from the chair and wiped his face with it before putting it on. “You really should come back to the gym,” he said. “It’ll clear your head.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Maybe.”
He looked at me for a long moment, the grin fading into something quieter. “Seriously. You need to stop beating yourself up, man.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” He nudged my knee with his foot. “You’ll talk about it eventually.”
“I already did.”
“Not really.”
He waited for me to answer, but I didn’t. He sighed and turned toward his room. I caught the light catching along his back again, the line of muscle under the fabric as he walked away. Something about the sight made my chest ache.
He stopped at his door, looked over his shoulder. “You know she wasn’t right for you anyway.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Still doesn’t feel great being the problem.”
“You’re not the problem,” he said, softer now. “You just think too much.”
Then he disappeared into his room, door half closed, leaving me with that line echoing in my head.
I leaned back, watching the empty doorway, and tried to believe him.
__ __
Later that night, the apartment had gone quiet again. The plates from dinner were still on the counter in the living room. I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in my hand, staring at nothing. The light from the hallway stretched across the floor, dim and yellow, and I could hear Tyler moving around in the living room. I figured he’d already gone to sleep.
Then his footsteps came closer. A soft knock, and before I could answer, the door opened.
“Okay,” he said, leaning against the frame. “Enough sulking.”
I sighed. “I’m not sulking.”
“You’ve started eating dinner in silence, Noah. That’s advanced sulking.”
He walked in wearing a loose T-shirt and joggers. He grabbed the chair from my desk and sat backward on it, arms draped over the backrest. His usual easy grin softened what might’ve otherwise sounded like nagging.
“I get breakups suck,” he said, “but you’re turning into some moody indie film character.”
“Wow,” I said. “Thanks for the support.”
“I’m just saying, you can’t keep moping around like someone stole your dog.”
I smirked despite myself. “You have a way with words.”
“I know.” He nodded toward the half-empty bottle on my nightstand. “You drinking alone now?”
“Only when my charming roommate refuses to join.”
That got a laugh out of him. He stood, grabbed the bottle, took a swig, and made a face. “Warm. Disgusting. Perfect.” Then he sat on the bed beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight.
The smell of soap and whiskey mixed in the air. He passed the bottle back to me.
“Talk to me,” he said. “What really happened with her?”
I stared at the bottle. “You already know. We were fighting all the time.”
“That’s not it.”
I glanced at him. His expression had lost its teasing edge. He wasn’t letting me off easy this time.
“Come on, man,” he said quietly. “You’ve known me since freshman year. You think I can’t tell when you’re holding something back?”
I hesitated. The words sat heavy on my tongue. I could’ve just shrugged it off, blamed stress or distance or whatever else made couples break up. But something about the way he was looking at me…steady, patient made lying feel worse.
“It wasn’t just emotional stuff,” I said finally.
He waited. “Meaning?”
I swallowed, eyes on the floor. “Meaning… things stopped working.”
“Working?” His eyebrow lifted. “Like…?”
“Like in bed,” I said, barely audible.
He made a small sound, something between a cough and a laugh. “You sure she wasn’t just bad at it?”
I shot him a look, but he smiled, trying to keep it light. “Kidding. Sorry. Go on.”
I rubbed my palms together, trying to keep my voice even. “I don’t know what happened. I’d get there and it was just… over. Before anything really started.”
The silence stretched between us. I could hear the fridge humming faintly in the distance, the faint creak of the building settling. Tyler didn’t say anything right away, which somehow made it worse.
Finally he said, “You mean like… fast?”
I nodded once.
He exhaled through his nose, leaning back on his hands. “Okay. That’s… fine. That happens, right?”
“Not every time,” I said. “Not like this.” I tried to laugh, but it came out rough. “Guess I just can’t last. Like at all. She pretended it didn’t bother her, but you could tell. Every time we’d fuck, it felt like this thing hanging over us. Like I was disappointing her without even meaning to.”
Tyler shifted beside me, his thigh brushing mine. “That sucks,” he said softly. “But you know it doesn’t mean something’s wrong with you, right?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s hard not to feel like it.”
He was quiet again, thinking. Then, almost too casually, he said, “So what exactly happens? You just…bust a load?”
“Tyler.”
“What? I’m trying to understand.”
I turned my head toward him. His expression was serious now, but there was still a hint of curiosity in it, the kind that made my pulse jump. I opened my mouth to answer, but the words got stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat.
Finally, I forced them out. “I cum before it even starts to feel good for her.”
The words hung there, small but heavy.
Tyler blinked once, then twice, and his mouth opened just a little like he wanted to say something but didn’t know what. The air between us felt tight, too warm, charged with something that wasn’t quite pity and wasn’t quite judgment either.
He looked at me, and I looked back, and neither of us said another word.
That was the moment the silence started to mean something different.
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