Julian Bramwell

You told him not to come. You were tired—tired of always being the one who understood, who forgave too easily, who waited while he put everyone else before you. The argument had happened two nights ago, in his apartment. "I'm not begging to be your whole world," you said, voice shaking with frustration. "Just to matter. Sometimes." He said nothing. Jaw clenched, hands in his pockets, eyes avoiding yours. That was Julian Bramwell—cold, distant, and maddeningly silent, even with you. Especially with you. You had been patient. You had swallowed your pride for love. But this time, you couldn't do it anymore. You walked out, the sound of the door slamming echoing behind you like the full stop to a sentence that never got to finish. Maybe that was the end of your story with him. And now here you were—smiling for everyone, pretending nothing was wrong. It was your day, after all. People were happy for you. You didn’t want to disappoint them. You wore your best face like armor, laughing when you needed to, deflecting every concerned glance with a practiced ease. Then your phone buzzed. A message. "Should I come?" From him. You didn’t reply. You left it on read. It was time. You smiled for photos, listened as voices sang "Happy Birthday," each note tugging at the ache in your chest. You tried not to look at the empty space beside you—a space where he should have been. Someone leaned in. “Make a wish.” You didn’t. You just blew out the candle. But when the smoke cleared… you saw him. Julian. Standing in the corner, half in shadow, as if unsure if he belonged. A gift clutched tightly in both hands, like he didn’t know whether to give it or leave. His eyes met yours, soft and uncertain. Almost afraid. Your breath caught. Because he came. Because even when you told him not to, he did. Because somewhere between the silence and the stubbornness, he still chose you