It was funny how both of you agreed that there were words that needed to be said, yet neither of you spoke a single one as the two of you sat in silence on opposite sides of the couch. You knew what you wanted to say— figuring out how to say it was the problem. Maybe Jean was having the same issue, if the way he continually opens his mouth to say something before abruptly shutting it when he realized he didn't exactly want to be the first one to say anything.

This behavior was unusual for Jean— typically he had no problem speaking his mind, often saying things before he properly thought them through. Perhaps that's why he was taking his time, now. This was a conversation that needed processed, coherent thoughts— he couldn't just spout out all his feelings in one jumbled, heated mess.

You watched him carefully, studying his leisurely form as he sat slumped on the couch. His long legs spread open slightly as his back rests against the cushions— strong jaw rested in his hand as he stares off into space. He's so handsome, you think to yourself, knowing that he'd truly have no problem attracting another partner if you were no longer in the picture.

Maybe he deserved that, to find someone better suited for him than you— but the thought of Jean being with someone else has you feeling uneasy. He's been yours for so long, for him to suddenly be someone else's after the fact just seemed...wrong. You weren't this type of person— possessive, wicked?

Are you?

Maybe you don't know yourself as well as you thought you did.

"Y/n— I wanna ask you something." Jean's voice is gentle but stoic, his eyes shift to yours as his fixes his posture to sit upright before you.

You focus your attention back in him, but you don't say anything just yet as you wait for his question to be said aloud. You're nervous— your heart beat thumps loudly in your chest as you anticipate his next move.

"Did you fuck him?"

It was a shot to your heart— the way you were expecting it but at the same time, you weren't— at least not so bluntly, but this was Jean you were dealing with, should you really expect anything less?

"What?"

You croak out, the lump in your throat inebriating your ability to speak clearly with more confidence.

"Don't do that," he scolds, "act so fucking innocent. I'm not gonna fall for it this time."

"I'm not—"

"Just stop, be honest with me for once." He pleads, his tone reaching higher volume as the Jean you've become accustomed to as of late has finally resurfaced. "I'm gonna ask you again, and I want the truth—

did you fuck Eren?"

The way he says it so boldly— the way it effortlessly rolls off his tongue tells you that he already knows the answer to the question he's asked and even if he didn't know before, he definitely knows now, by the way you don't say anything at all. You just couldn't fucking say it— I mean, how could you? How would you be able to tell him that yes, you did cheat on him with Eren?

Not only Eren, but Armin as well; twice.

The way you fail to even deny the accusation makes Jean's heart crumple to dust. You aren't even fighting it— and for a moment he regrets asking you to be honest with him, figuring a lie would be better than knowing the truth.

Please; please lie.

"Yes... I did."

As soon as the words leave your lips, he's broken. He wants to scream, cry, beat the shit out of Eren— anything to relieve some of the pressure in his chest that threatens to suffocate him. Just looking into your eyes leaves him breathless, a look of desolation on your face but he can't help but wonder if it's even genuine.

Do you regret it?

Do you regret breaking his heart?

"Jean, please say something."

You're scared— he's been silent for a few minutes, brows furrowed as he's drowning in a riptide of torturous thoughts. You want him to scream at you, insult you— call you a cheating bitch, a slut— anything except the silence that leaves far too much up for interpretation.

He can't.

How can he say anything when the unwarranted thoughts of you laying underneath Eren Jaeger as he takes what was supposed to be , fill his anguished mind? He felt absolutely sick to know that another man has seen you in such a way— touched you, in the way that only he was supposed to.

"Why?"

It's the only thing he can manage to sputter, not even really sure why he asked it in the first place. It's not like he wanted to know why you chose to fuck someone else, it was more so that he needed to rationalize the situation— figure out what made you stray as if he didn't already know. It was his fault, he understood that much... but does that really excuse your actions?

Why didn't you just talk to him first?

It's not like he had ever made it easy to talk, he hated having these sorts of conversations— opting to take a more physical form of discourse because, well... it just didn't hurt as badly. Words can be deadly, that much was apparent with the way he felt him self dying inside at this very moment.

"I- I don't really know."

You begin, not sure what to say or how to answer. How exactly do you tell someone that you aren't in love with them anymore?

"It's complicated—"

"What's so fuckin' complicated about it? Do you realize how you dumb sound right now?" He's seething, sadness now fueling his anger towards you and himself. "I know I've been a shitty boyfriend lately but fuck, y/n— did you really have to go and fuck him?"

"If you knew you were being shitty why didn't you do something about it?"

You spit— as if you're the victim; but, aren't you? Maybe not, although neither of you are willing to admit your wrong doings— neither of you are wanting to succumb to the realization that of you took part in sinking this ship, no sin greater than the other.

He mutters, getting up from the couch and storming his way into your shared bedroom.

"Jean, wait! We aren't done talking about this, you can't just—"

SLAM.

The door practically falls off its hinges with the amount of force he's used to shut himself in— the walls shake momentarily, the recoil knocking a picture frame down to the floor. The glass shatters, shards flying every which way as you scramble to pick up the pieces.

With your knees pressed into the hardwood flooring, you grab the remnants of the happy relationship that this particular photo captured. Jean's lips were pressed delicately to your temple as you smiled big and bright— a genuine smile, one that used to appear so effortlessly whenever the two of you were together.

When had everything gone so sour?

You've been asking yourself that for almost a year now, but you've yet to find the answer.

Your vision begins to blur behind a film of salted tears, as you mourn for a relationship that had been dead for far too long.

After sweeping up the rest of the glass, you empty it into the bin,

broken; just like this glass, just like your heart.

Grabbing your coat and keys, you prepare yourself to leave momentarily. There was no point in staying right now when Jean was unwilling to speak with you— per usual, whenever things went wrong. Jean didn't like to have the heavy conversations, and in turn, many situations went unresolved. Still, this was something that couldn't just be swept under the rug— both of you knew that, and it was only a matter of time before everything would come to a head.

Taking one last look at the photo in your hands, you walk towards the door... and drop it into the trash. Your throat burns, your head spins— tears still stuck to the apples of your cheeks as you grip onto the door handle with shaky fingers.