Like my heart's about to burst whenever I look at him.

Gavin's own heart aches in response. It's how he'd felt whenever he watched Emma when she wasn't aware, that overwhelming fondness when he'd notice the little things about Theo that had once escaped him. Affection, warmth — eventually, love.

He understands, too, the bitter sting of rejection.

Were they seeing each other before?

He's thinking of how to broach the question when jayden cross mentions the Luvdisc.

"Did you — think it meant something?"

Emma had gifted him the blue-furred Lycanroc he treasured to this day, had seemed surprised and affronted by his averse reaction to gifts. But he thinks, too, of how he'd given Theo fish to stock his aquarium upon finding out his hobby.

Then again, gifts could be between friends, too. He'd recently given Tempest Quinn a Lapras, and they weren't seeing either other.

Well, not like that.

"Oh."

Had he researched the meaning of the gift after it had been given, or stumbled across the information? What had been the circumstances of the gifting?

These aren't the questions he asks.

Softly, Gavin speaks,

"I didn't know that. Do you know if Chu-e does?"

Oh, Jayden, why would you ask me about her?

It's not what he says. Gavin sighs, soft.

"I love her."

He thinks he always will.

"So... yes, that's how I felt."

Now, there's only pain when he catches a glimpse of her in passing. He's not approached her since; it's not his place to cross a bridge he'd set alight.

"It's not really something I can put into words, Jay."

But for jayden cross, he'll try.

It hurts so much to think of her now, to think past the pain to a time when she'd been part of his universe. But never the center — no, Gavin would always be the center of his own, the axis around which his purpose spun.

That, he thinks, had been part of the problem.

"I felt safer around her than anyone else. Comfortable?" As expected, no words feel right. "It's more than that, it's... I'd look at her and I'd just feel happier."

He doesn't cry, his eyes don't water, but the words stick in his throat.

He crosses over to the window and forces it open. It sticks, too, grating with disuse. He lights a smoke and takes a long, grounding pull.

The twist in his gut tells him to lie.

But when his gaze snaps to Jayden's, sharp, it softens at the agony he finds there.

"No."

He'd hoped it would be obvious, that he wouldn't have to spell it out.

"No," he repeats, patient. "There was someone—"

Before? After? It's both, in a way, confusing in its complexity.

"There was someone else."

It's telling in the softness of his tone, the words he uses. Was.