"Rory, tell me what's on your mind," Milo said.

Rory was clearly nervous about something, which was making Milo nervous. He could read Rory like a book at this point, although Rory had never been all that hard to read—he tended to wear his emotions on his sleeve.

Milo had been really, really trying.

The expression on Rory's face last weekend, when he'd said I love you, had been like a punch to the stomach.

Saying I love you, Milo thought, shouldn't have to sound like an affliction—unless you were terrified of what the other person would say.

Milo was tired of being emotionally stunted and unavailable. And it wasn't that he didn't feel it or think it—he thought about Rory every minute of every day, it seemed, and whenever they were apart, Milo found himself counting down the hours until they'd be together again.

Totally vile, sappy romantic bullshit like that—things Milo had always ruthlessly mocked in others. Kit had even lovingly called Milo out for not-so-subtly trying to work Rory into every conversation they had, the way Jamie had done when he and Bennett had first started dating.

Milo hated the idea that he'd left any room for doubt about how he felt about Rory.

And so, he did something he'd never done for anyone else—he tried.

Rory was why Milo was in therapy—well, really, he was in therapy for himself, but Rory had been the catalyst. Rory had been the catalyst for Milo deciding there might be a better way to live his life. A way without so much pain, so much heartbreak.

And it had been working.

Giving himself permission to be happy was the hardest thing Milo had ever done.

"Please tell me," Milo said again.

It was Sunday morning, the week after they'd run into Ryan and Camilla on Chestnut Street. Milo had finished his portfolio, and to celebrate the end of the school year, Jamie and Bennett were hosting another brunch at their house.

But as they'd gotten up that morning, Rory had gotten that tense, pensive look on his face that meant he wanted to say something, but was afraid to.

He was standing at his closet, surveying his wardrobe, and he shot a look over at Rory, who was still sitting on the bed.

"I got a job," Rory said finally, spitting out the words like he was confessing to a murder.

"Rory, that's great—" Milo said. "Why are you acting so weird?"

"It's… it's in California," Rory said.

It took the full weight of the words a moment to sink in.

"Oh," Milo said. "That's—that's really cool."

"I—I want you to come with me," Rory said.

Milo blinked. That same old panic flared up in him, bright and insistent and completely tiresome at this point.

"Oh," he said.

Rory's eyes fluttered shut, and he massaged his temples.

"Goddamnit," he muttered.

"What?" Milo said, frowning. Rory glanced up at him, and even from across the room, Milo could see his teeth were gritted, his jaw set.

"I knew you were going to freak out about this," he said.

"I'm not freaking out," said Milo, who was most certainly freaking out. He could feel himself getting defensive, which meant he was about to get mean.

Coping skills, you fucker, Milo told himself. You're not going to therapy twice a week because it's fun.

"You are freaking out," Rory said. He sounded weary, and he looked up at the ceiling.

"Okay, so maybe I’m freaking out a little," Milo snapped. He crossed his arms over his bare chest. "But you're also asking me to move across the country with you."

"Thanks for making moving in with your boyfriend sound like such a chore," Rory said.

Milo opened his mouth, about to spit out some biting retort, but stopped himself just in time.

"It's—it's—you caught me by surprise," Milo finished lamely. Rory was looking at him like he was waiting for Milo to continue, but Milo had nothing else to say. He wasn't used to seeing Rory like this, angry and tense.

Rory sighed and stood up, snatching his clothing off the floor.

"What?" Milo said.

"What do you mean, what?" Rory said, refusing to look at him.

"You're pissed at me."

"I'm not—I'm just—" Rory stammered.

"You just asked me to move across the country," Milo said, frustrated. "It's not fair for you to get mad at me for not instantly wanting to make such a big decision. You're putting me on the spot."

Rory straightened up and turned to Milo, his brow furrowed.

"You know what? Yes. I’m upset with you," Rory said. "I'm upset because it's fucking exhausting sometimes."

"What's exhausting?" Milo said coldly.

"This," Rory said, waving his hands vaguely. "You acting so lukewarm about us all the time."

Milo felt like he'd been slapped, and he stood there, frozen.

But I've been trying, he thought.

He'd been trying so hard. He'd been working so hard to change, to grow, to be better.

But it still wasn't good enough.

"I get that it's a big question," Rory continued, as he pulled on his clothing, unaware that his words had knocked the breath from Milo's chest. Milo could barely hear what he was saying now. "But it'd be nice if for once I could just bring something like this up and have, like, a conversation about it with you without you acting like I just asked if I could harvest a kidney—"

Rory turned to look at Milo.

The blood was rushing in Milo's ears, as loud as ocean surf. Milo was smart—he could read between the lines, could hear what Rory was really saying.

You're too much work. I'm tired of this. You're not worth the effort you make me put in. I'm tired of you.

"Milo, are you even listening to me?" Rory said with exasperation.

"Believe me, I heard you. Thanks for making being with me sound like such a chore," Milo said, throwing Rory's words back at him. Milo's voice was low, and his hands were shaking.

"That's not what I meant—" Rory said, his mouth dropping open in surprise.

"Isn't it, though?" Milo said. "We've had this fight before—I'm never enough for you, Rory. And I'm never going to be enough."

"Milo—" Rory said, looking shocked. "That's not what I was saying at all. I don't think that—"

"Well, maybe you should," Milo said, spitting out the words. "Jesus, Rory, why do you even want me to move with you? Why do you want to be with me? All I do is make you miserable."

"Don't say that—" Rory said, crossing the room to Milo. He reached out for him, but Milo pulled back violently, nearly falling back against his closet door. Rory stepped back, horrified.

"I'm not fucking good for you, Rory," Milo said. "This whole—this whole year you've just let me hurt you again and again. And you've forgiven me again and again. I don't fucking deserve that. I don't deserve you."

"Milo," Rory said, and the shock in his voice had hardened into something darker. "Seriously, stop saying this shit. Stop trying to pick a fight with me."

"I'm not picking a fight," Milo said. "I'm pointing out the obvious."

"You're making assumptions about—"

"About what, Rory? I'm fucked up, and I've fucked you up too."

"You haven't—" Rory said.

"I have," Milo said. A hot, desperate kind of anger flooded through him, and in its wake came an awful clarity. "I'm not any better than Ryan. I'm just hurting you, and you're letting me."

"Fucking stop," Rory snapped. "You're nothing like that asshole. Milo, what the hell is going on with you? Where is this all coming from?"

"It's the truth."

"No it's not," Rory said. "You're freaked out because moving would be a big step. I get it. But, like, for Christ's sake, at least give me a little agency here. I chose this—"

"Chose to put up with me?" Milo snapped, and Rory made a frustrated noise as he scrubbed his hand over his face.

"Goddamnit, Milo," he said. "I know this hasn't been easy for you, and that's why I didn't ask you about this earlier—I got this job offer weeks ago—"

"See?" Milo broke in, pouncing. "That's not a sign of a healthy relationship. Look me in the eye and tell me you're getting what you need from me."

"I'm not letting you do this, Milo," Rory said, gritting his teeth in determination. "You're scared, I get it—I'm scared too, okay? But stop acting like you're this toxic person that's ruining me."

"I fucking am, though," Milo said. His whole body was shaking so hard he had to grip the corner of his dresser, his knuckles going white. "You should be with—"

"I should be with who?" Rory said, his fists balled up. "I want to be with you—"

"You should be with someone who loves you."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Milo felt a strange calmness descend over him. Time seemed to slow down, as if he were slowly sinking to the bottom of a swimming pool, the world quiet and muted above him.

Rory's eyes went wide, and he took a step back. All the fight had gone out of his body—Milo had cut Rory open with the brutal efficiency of a surgeon.

Milo felt empty, hollowed out like an abandoned house, the wind whistling through lonely hallways.

The deed was done. The words could not be unsaid.

And now, Rory could see Milo for who he truly was.

Rory pressed a hand to his mouth.

"What does that mean?" Rory said, his voice soft, wounded.

Milo looked away from Rory, down to the clothes strewn across the floor by his closet.

"It means I can't pretend anymore. Pretend I'm the person you want me to be."

Rory swallowed hard, and Milo saw tears welling up in his eyes.

"You're such a fucking liar, Milo," Rory said, his voice low and hoarse.

"I'm sorry," Milo said, but it was an empty apology. "I shouldn't have said that I—"

"That's not what I'm talking about," Rory hissed. "You do love me. You're lying to yourself. But if you won't admit that, there's nothing more I can do."

Rory looked at Milo challengingly, daring him to say something, to deny, but Milo just stood there, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

Rory gritted his teeth, looking like he was about to say something else, but instead, he turned and left the room.

Milo listened to Rory's footsteps thud through the hallway and down the stairs. The door slammed and then Milo's apartment was silent.

Milo stepped back, bumping into the wall. His legs collapsed beneath him, and he sank down onto the floor, sitting on a pile of laundry.

He was numb, empty, alone.

The sun shone brightly through his window, sparkling with the promise of a lush, wild summer.

Milo hugged his knees to his chest and buried his face. He willed himself to cry, but no tears came, only a vast, aching loneliness.