You’d argued again. Loud. Hurtful. He didn’t chase after you when you stormed out. It’s been three days. Now, you open your locker and find a note in his handwriting: “Meet me on the roof. You don’t have to forgive me. I just… I need to say it this time.” When you arrive, he’s already there, hands clenched, voice low: “I don’t know how to fix what I break. But if you walk away again… I’m not sure I’ll survive it this time.”