CHAPTER FOUR: THE BREAKING
1224 Words
Choosing love over your brother feels heroic in the moment.
Reality is messier.
Marc didn’t explode or block me. He just went cold. Polite, distant texts. "Hope you’re well." "Take care of yourself." Each message a reminder that I’d disappointed him—and that he was waiting for Sebastian to prove him right.
Sebastian felt it too. Marc’s disapproval. His mother’s judgment. The expectation that he would fail again.
At first, we were defiant. Public dinners. Holding hands along the canals. Staying at each other’s apartments like we had nothing to hide.
But slowly, things shifted.
He canceled plans for work. I left early instead of staying over. Conversations grew careful. Stiff.
“I’m fine,” became our refrain.
We weren’t fine.
One night, three weeks after the confrontation, we sat on his couch pretending to watch a film.
“You’ve been distant,” I said.
“I’m just stressed.”
“About work—or about us?”
“Can we not do this right now?”
“No. We need to.”
He stood, pacing. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“The truth. Are you regretting this?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Marc won’t talk to me. My mother won’t stop implying I’ll ruin this. My editor says I seem distracted. I feel like I’m failing at everything—including us.”
“You’re not failing.”
“Aren’t I? Look at us. You’re trying to organize this into working. I’m pulling away because that’s what I do. Maybe Marc was right. Maybe this was a mistake.”
The words hit hard.
“So what are you saying?”
“Maybe we rushed. Maybe I need space.”
Space.
“Fine,” I said, grabbing my bag. “Take it. But don’t expect me to still be here when you decide.”
I left before I could beg him to fight.
---
I threw myself into work. Three new clients in a week. Systems. Schedules. Control.
Amélie caught me reorganizing the kitchen at midnight.
“You’re hiding,” she said.
“I’m being productive.”
“You’re alphabetizing spices.”
“What happened?”
“He needs space.”
“And you just gave it to him?”
“You can’t fight for someone who doesn’t want to fight.”
“Did you even tell him you loved him?”
“He knew.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
I didn’t answer.
---
Two weeks later, Sebastian texted.
*Can we talk?*
I went.
His apartment was fraying—papers scattered, books out of place. Like us.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About my patterns. Maybe Marc’s right. Maybe I panic when things get real. I don’t know if I’m pulling away because I’m scared—or because this isn’t right.”
“You asked me here to tell me you still don’t know?”
“I asked you to be honest.”
“Honest would’ve been fighting. Telling your mother and Marc they don’t get to decide. Showing up.”
“I’m trying.”
“No. You’re doing exactly what they expect.”
“Maybe that’s who I am.”
“Or maybe you’re too scared to find out who you could be.”
“That’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair.”
He looked exhausted. “Maybe this just isn’t working.”
“Relationships are work.”
“Not this hard. Not this fast.”
Something in me snapped.
“You want easy? Fine. We’re done. Take all the space you need.”
“Elise—”
“No. I’m done fighting for someone who won’t fight back.”
“I love you,” he said quietly.
I stopped.
“No, you don’t,” I whispered. “People who love each other show up.”
I left.
---
The week after was brutal.
I blocked him. Removed every trace. Organized heartbreak into neat compartments.
But this hurt more than Richard ever had. Because Richard chose someone else. Sebastian chose fear.
Amélie found me crying in the shower.
“Did you tell him you loved him?” she asked again.
Silence.
“You called him a coward,” she said gently. “But did you fight? Or did you protect yourself with anger?”
“I think I made a mistake,” I whispered.
“Then fix it.”
I tried calling. Voicemail. I went to his house. No answer.
Three days later, Amélie came home with news.
“Apparently there’s a plagiarism accusation. Against Sebastian.”
My stomach dropped.
---
I didn’t knock. I used the key.
The apartment was wrecked. Worse than before.
I found him in the attic office, sitting on the floor surrounded by papers.
“You still have your key,” he said flatly.
“I heard about the accusation.”
“Thomas Janssen claims my article is based on his unpublished research. It’s not true. But if my editor can’t prove that, I’m done.”
“Show me everything.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“Too bad.”
“You organize messes. I’m a mess.”
“I also love you,” I said. “And I’m here because you’re in crisis. If you want me gone, I’ll go. But pushing me away won’t fix this.”
“Maybe alone is what I deserve.”
“Stop punishing yourself for everyone else’s expectations.”
He looked shattered. “I don’t know how to let someone stay when I’m falling apart.”
“You just let them.”
“What if I hurt you again?”
“What if you don’t?”
“I love you,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m terrible at showing it. I got scared. I pulled away. I’m sorry.”
“I love you too. And I’m sorry I gave you an ultimatum instead of saying that.”
He exhaled like something inside him finally released.
“What do we do now?”
“First, we save your career.”
---
We spent twelve hours going through drafts, timestamps, research notes—building proof of authorship. I compiled everything into a meticulous timeline and sent it to his editor with a sharp, professional cover email.
Two hours later, the editor responded. The accusation was baseless. Thomas had been reprimanded. Sebastian’s position was secure.
“We did it,” he said, exhausted.
“We did,” I agreed.
He looked at me carefully.
“Now I stop letting fear decide my life. I choose you. Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m scared.”
“I choose you too.”
“Even though I’m a mess?”
“Especially because you’re a mess.”
He smiled for the first time in weeks.
“We can’t start over,” I said. “But we can start from here. Honest. No running.”
“I won’t run.”
“And I won’t organize my feelings instead of feeling them.”
We shook on it, ridiculous and sincere.
Then he kissed me, and it felt like coming home.
We still had Marc to face. His mother. Our patterns.
But we had broken—and chosen to rebuild.
And sometimes that’s what love is.
Choosing each other.
Again.
- Writer
