Chapter 1: The Anniversary Ultimatum

Because I worked late and missed our anniversary, Mason blocked me again. The words hung in my mind, heavy and familiar. My chest felt tight, a strange numbness settling in as I tried to process it—was I angry? Anxious? Or just so used to this that it barely registered anymore? The faint hum of the city outside seeped in through the thin walls, the scent of last night’s coffee lingering in the air. I realized my hands were cold, gripping my phone a little too tightly.

I sat on the edge of our unmade bed, phone in hand, staring at the little gray circle where his profile picture used to be. It was always the same routine—one missed call, a couple of unanswered texts, then bam, blocked. My stomach twisted, not just from hunger, but from the cold finality of that blank screen. My stomach actually growled, a sharp ache reminding me I hadn’t eaten since yesterday, but the emptiness inside was deeper than that. The city lights filtered through our window, painting thin stripes across the floorboards, giving the whole room a washed-out look. Even now, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was watching my Instagram stories from some finsta, lurking in the shadows, waiting for me to break down and beg.

I used to tell myself that maybe same-sex couples like us were just naturally more prone to insecurity—at least, that’s what I’d picked up from all the articles and late-night forums. Maybe it was just a story I told myself, something I’d internalized after years of watching other couples like us try and fail. But every time we fought, it was always Mason giving me the cold shoulder and blocking me. In the end, I’d lower my head, admit fault, and buy gifts to make it up to him. Sometimes I wondered: was I really his boyfriend, or just his servant? Or maybe I was just playing a role I never auditioned for.

Sometimes, when I’m standing in line at Target, picking out yet another peace-offering candle—maybe one of those three-wick vanilla ones, or that weird pine scent Mason likes—I catch my reflection in the freezer doors and think, 'How did I end up here?' The store’s fluorescent lights make my face look pale and tired, and I barely recognize myself. I’m not even sure when the line between being loving and being a doormat got so blurry. My friends joke about being whipped, but this feels different—like I’m always one mistake away from being shut out for good, always bracing for that next silent treatment.

So this time, when he said we should break up, I just took a deep breath and said, "Okay." I let the words settle, feeling the weight of them, as if I’d just tossed a stone into still water and was waiting for the ripples to reach the shore.

My heart pounded in my chest, but my voice came out calm—almost too calm, like I was reading lines from someone else’s script. My hands trembled a little, a lump forming in my throat, but outwardly I was steady. I half-expected the world to tilt or the room to spin, but instead, everything just seemed eerily still, like the air before a Midwest thunderstorm—the kind where the pressure drops and you can smell rain coming, but nothing’s fallen yet.

This wasn’t the first time Mason had threatened to break up. As someone in the LGBTQ community, I know how hard same-sex relationships can be—there’s always that extra pressure, the feeling that you’re under a microscope. Couples like us, who’ve lasted seven years, are even rarer. That’s why I never say those words lightly. But Mason seemed to wield them like a weapon. Even over the smallest issue, he’d escalate things to breaking up. Only when I lowered my head, admitted fault, and apologized would he let it go. That move always did the trick for him.

I used to tell myself that maybe he just needed reassurance, that if I loved him enough, he’d stop needing to test me. But each time, it chipped away at me. Sometimes I’d replay those fights in my head while driving home from work, the hum of the engine and the blur of headlights outside my window grounding me, wishing I could hit rewind and say what I really felt instead of what I thought would keep the peace.

So this time, when he saw me nod and say "okay," he was stunned. Mason’s eyes widened, as if he couldn’t believe it. The next second, he angrily smashed the mug in his hand on the floor. He demanded, "Dylan, what the hell do you mean by that?"

The crash echoed through the apartment, sharp and final. I flinched, the sound ringing in my ears, and for a split second, the world seemed to freeze. Coffee splattered across the tile, little brown droplets creeping toward the baseboards. I thought he might cry, just for a second—his eyes glistened—but his anger swallowed it up, twisting his mouth into a snarl I’d seen too many times.

I didn’t want to argue anymore, so I quietly took out a broom and swept up the broken glass. The bristles scraped over the tile, and I could feel the grit under my feet, every step a reminder of what had just shattered. Then I sighed and continued, "I mean we really need to separate and cool off. I’ll start looking for a place in the next couple of days and move out as soon as possible."

My hands shook as I swept, more from exhaustion than fear. I could feel Mason’s glare burning into the back of my neck, but I kept my voice steady. The apartment felt smaller than ever, the echo of our voices bouncing off the walls, the faint smell of coffee lingering in the air. It was like the whole place was closing in, every memory pressing down on me.

Mason’s face grew darker and darker. He crossed his arms and sneered, "Fine, if you want to leave, then leave. Whatever, just go. Best if you go this afternoon."

He looked away, jaw clenched, as if daring me to call his bluff. The sunlight caught the tears forming in his eyes, his fists clenching at his sides, shoulders rigid with tension. He blinked them away so quickly I almost missed it. For a moment, I wondered if he was hurting too, or just angry that his usual script wasn’t working.

I thought, after all these years together, he’d at least try to make me stay. But never mind. A cold draft slipped in through the window, making my skin prickle. My heart sank, heavy and hollow.

I let the silence hang between us, heavy and awkward. I remembered when we first moved in—how we’d argued over where to put the couch, how he’d insisted on hanging his old Green Day poster above the TV. Back then, every fight ended with laughter and a make-up kiss. Now, all I felt was numb, like someone had hit the mute button on my life.

"Okay, I’ll move out this afternoon. The rent here is paid until the end of the month. Whether you want to renew or move to a smaller place, it’s up to you. Once this month’s utilities bill comes in, I’ll pay it for you. The rest..."

I tried to keep my voice businesslike, ticking off the practicalities like we were splitting up after a Craigslist roommate arrangement, not seven years of shared life. My throat felt tight, but I pushed through it. I didn’t want to leave loose ends, even if my heart was breaking. I glanced at the TV—who would keep it? And what about the little succulent we bought at the flea market, the one that never really grew?

"Dylan!" Mason cut me off, his voice shaking. "Go out and ask around—who else has an anniversary as crappy as mine?"

He jabbed a finger toward me, his knuckles white. I could see the hurt beneath the anger, but it came out as accusation, not vulnerability. It was always easier for him to blame than to ask for what he needed.

"Aaron’s boyfriend gave him a Rolex for their anniversary. Jordan’s boyfriend took him to Hawaii for vacation. Even our office’s Linda—her husband knows to take her to a Michelin-starred restaurant for their anniversary. And you? You even missed ours."

He rattled off the list like a prosecutor, his voice rising with each example. I pictured Aaron’s boyfriend, all designer suits and inherited money, and Jordan’s silver-haired sugar daddy. Linda’s Instagram-perfect date nights flashed through my mind—her and her husband at The Cheesecake Factory, smiling over plates of pasta. I wondered if Mason ever noticed the way Linda’s husband scrolled through his phone all dinner, or if he just remembered the photos.

Here we go again. Every time we fight, he keeps bringing up old grievances or compares me to his friends’ boyfriends, always implying how useless I am. Aaron’s boyfriend is from a wealthy family, and Jordan’s boyfriend is thirty years older than him. I’m just an ordinary guy who’s only been working for a few years—how can I compare?

Sometimes I’d joke about being the only one in our friend group who still shopped at Old Navy, squinting under the harsh fluorescent lights at the wall of sale signs, but deep down, the comparisons stung. I’d saved for months to buy Mason that Apple Watch, skipping out on drinks with coworkers and brown-bagging lunch, eating alone in the break room with nothing but my phone for company. But none of it ever seemed enough.

Suddenly, I realized what he was really angry about wasn’t that I missed the anniversary. He was upset that I couldn’t give him a Rolex or take him to Hawaii. Even so, I still tried to explain: "I didn’t mean to miss our anniversary. A big client showed up out of nowhere, and the boss wanted me to help with the reception."

I tried to keep my voice gentle, hoping he’d hear the exhaustion behind my words. My palms were sweaty, and I wiped them on my jeans. The memory of that frantic workday flashed through my mind—the last-minute emails, the endless coffee, the boss’s hopeful grin when I agreed to stay late. I felt my shoulders sag under the weight of disappointment, like I’d let him down in some irreversible way.

Mason sneered, "I don’t buy it. You’re just a cog in the machine. Would your company collapse without you?"

His words hit harder than I expected. For a second, I wanted to yell back, to list all the ways I’d busted my ass for this project, all the times I’d covered for coworkers or picked up the slack. My fists clenched at my sides, knuckles aching. But I bit my tongue. There was no point. He’d already made up his mind.

I’m the core technical staff on this project. There are a lot of things only I can explain. I’ve already been working overtime for a week for this project. If it succeeds, we might have enough for a down payment by the end of the year. I had already booked the restaurant, bought the flowers, and picked out the gift. But yesterday I really didn’t have time, so I asked him if we could celebrate today instead. But he never tries to understand me. He only remembers that I didn’t spend the anniversary with him. To him, everything is just an excuse.

I remembered the way he rolled his eyes when I suggested celebrating a day late, like I’d asked him to settle for leftovers on Thanksgiving. The smell of reheated turkey and mushy stuffing flashed through my mind, the taste of disappointment lingering. The truth was, I wanted to make it special too. But no matter how hard I tried, my efforts always seemed to fall short.

I’d been working overtime since last night and hadn’t eaten a thing. My low blood sugar made me a little shaky. I didn’t want to, and didn’t have the energy to, keep arguing with him, so I just stayed quiet.

My hands trembled as I leaned heavily on the kitchen counter, rubbing my temples to fight off the throbbing headache building behind my eyes. I could feel the beginnings of a headache throbbing behind my eyes. I glanced at the clock, counting the hours since I’d last eaten—almost twenty-four. My stomach growled, but I ignored it, focusing on breathing slowly, in and out.

Mason noisily packed his backpack, walked to the entryway, and glanced back at me. Coldly, he said, "If you want to leave, then leave. And don’t come back after you go. If I come back tonight and still see your stuff in the house, I’ll throw it all out." With that, he put on his sneakers and slammed the door behind him.

The sound of the door slamming made me flinch. I listened to his footsteps echo down the hallway, fading into the hum of the city outside. For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the dent in the wall where the doorknob had hit. Then I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and started cleaning up the mess he left behind.