Living separately didn't change much at first. I used to joke about losing my personal chef, though Jacob would still bring me food every now and then. It wasn't the same, but I told myself this distance was healthy—space to grow, to meet new friends.
But not all growth is painless.
Most of my friends were men—around eighty percent, if I was honest. I didn't think much of it, but I noticed Jacob's silence whenever he came to fetch me at the café. He'd stand at the door, hands shoved into his pockets, waiting while I laughed at jokes that weren't his.
One night, that silence cracked.
"Do you enjoy it so much?" he asked suddenly as we walked home.
I blinked, confused. "Enjoy what?"
He stopped, his voice low but tight. "Them. Those guys. Always around you, always making you laugh."
"They're just my friends, Jacob," I said quickly, brushing it off. "You know that."
His jaw tightened. "Friends don't look at you like that. And you don't laugh at me the way you laugh at them."
The words stung. "Are you… jealous?" I tried to sound light, but it came out sharp.
"Damn right I am!" His voice rose, startling me. "You think I don't notice? I come to see you, to spend time with you, and I end up standing there like an idiot while you make everyone else feel special."
I froze, my heart pounding. "That's not fair. I'm allowed to have friends. You don't own my laughter, Jacob."
His fists clenched at his sides. "No, I don't. But I thought I at least mattered enough to get a piece of it."
Silence fell between us, heavy and suffocating. That night was the first real fight we had—and it wouldn't be the last.
Each argument after built on the last, stacking like stones. Little by little, they dragged Jacob down into a place I couldn't reach.
One afternoon, I was sitting at the café with my classmates, a group of guys who always had a new story to tell. Jacob arrived, holding a lunchbox he'd cooked for me. His smile faded the moment he saw me laughing across the table.
When we walked out together, he handed me the food without looking at me.
"Thanks," I said softly.
He shrugged. "Didn't want you to skip lunch again."
I touched his arm. "Jacob, don't be mad. They're just classmates."
"Classmates who always happen to make you forget I'm even in the room," he muttered.
I sighed. "You're overthinking."
"No," he shot back, eyes dark. "You're underthinking."
Another fight came weeks later. I had texted one of my friends late at night, asking for notes. Jacob saw the notification flash on my phone when I left it charging.
"Why him?" he asked the moment I came back to the room.
I frowned. "What do you mean, why him? He has the notes."
"You could've asked anyone else."
"He was awake. I didn't think it mattered."
Jacob's voice hardened. "It matters to me."
"Jacob," I said, frustrated, "you can't keep policing who I talk to."
His laugh was bitter. "And you can't keep pretending it's nothing when it eats me alive."
The small fights piled up like stones in our pockets, weighing us down.
Sometimes he would go quiet for days, withdrawing into himself. Other times, the anger boiled over.
"I'm not enough for you, am I?" he blurted once after seeing me walking with another friend.
I stopped in my tracks. "How can you even say that? You're everything to me."
"Then why does it feel like I'm sharing you with the whole world?"
His voice cracked, and that broke me more than his anger ever did.
We still had good days—moments of laughter, late-night guitar sessions, dinners he cooked with care. But those days were getting fewer, and the storms between us louder.
I didn't know it then, but all those little arguments were the tremors before the quake—the warning signs before the breaking point came crashing down.
It was late evening when it finally happened.
We were supposed to meet at my boarding house to finish a group project. I told Jacob I'd be with classmates at the café before heading home. When he arrived, I was still there, laughing with two of the guys.
He stood at the entrance, arms crossed, eyes burning. The moment our eyes met, I knew.
"Jacob," I said carefully, excusing myself from the table, "you're early."
"Early?" His voice was sharp, too sharp. "Or maybe you're late—too busy entertaining them to notice the time."
"Don't do this here," I whispered, glancing at the others.
"Why not?" he snapped. "They should hear too—since they seem to know you better than I do."
I pulled him outside. My heart raced. "Jacob, stop. You're making a scene."
"I'm making a scene?" His laugh was hollow. "No, I'm just finally saying what I should've said months ago. I can't stand it anymore. The late-night texts, the constant lunches, the way you look at them—"
I cut him off, voice trembling. "Don't twist it! They're my friends. Nothing more."
His hands raked through his hair, frustration spilling over. "Then why do I always feel like I'm second choice? Like I'm competing for your attention every damn day?"
"Because you're insecure!" The words burst out of me, sharper than I meant. "You think cooking for me, fetching me, watching over me—that's what makes you my boyfriend? Jacob, I never asked you to compete."
He went silent. His chest heaved, his jaw clenched so tight I thought he might shatter.
Then, softly—too softly—he said, "So what am I to you, really?"
My throat tightened. I wanted to say everything. I wanted to say home. But the words stuck, strangled by anger and pride.
And maybe that silence was the loudest thing of all.
Jacob shook his head, stepping back. "I can't keep fighting for a place you won't give me."
"Jacob—" I reached out, but he pulled away.
"Don't," he whispered. His voice cracked like glass. "If I stay, I'll just keep breaking."
And with that, he walked away.
For the first time in years, I didn't follow.