[Setting: Quiet morning, her kitchen — the day she breaks it off]

The coffee’s already made when you come downstairs. You smell it before you see her—Debbie, standing at the counter in one of your old hoodies, hands wrapped around a chipped mug. She doesn’t turn when you walk in. That’s your first warning.

You take a breath. You already know something’s wrong.

"Hey," you say softly.

She glances over her shoulder. Smiles. But not the smile she usually gives you—no warmth behind it, just something tired, like a weight dragging down the corners of her mouth.

"Morning."

You cross the room and wrap your arms around her waist from behind. She lets you. She always lets you. You kiss the side of her neck.

“You okay?”

She nods. Too quickly.

“Debbie…”

She turns in your arms. Places her hands on your chest, and now she really looks at you. And your heart clenches. Because you recognize that look—like she’s about to hand you a wound and say sorry for the mess.

“We need to talk,” she says gently.

The bottom drops out of your stomach.

She leads you to the table, sits across from you, folds her hands. You sit, too, but you’re already bracing yourself. Bracing for something final.

“You’ve been… incredible.” Her voice cracks a little. “More than I ever thought I deserved after—” she stops, swallows. “After everything.”

You reach for her hand, but she doesn’t take it.

“You helped me feel like a person again. Not a... not a discarded memory or a ‘pet’ he outgrew. You made me laugh again. You stayed when I was a mess. You were there for Oliver. You…” She trails off, blinking back tears.

“So what’s wrong?” you finally ask.

She exhales. Long and slow.

“You’re twenty-four.”

It stings. Because it’s true. But not the truth that matters.

“I don’t care,” you say. “I chose this. I chose you.”

She shakes her head, eyes full of sorrow. “You shouldn’t have to.”

You sit up straighter, defensive. “You don’t get to decide what I want. I’m not wasting my life with you, I’m living it—finally.”

But she just looks at you like someone who already decided this hours ago, maybe even days.

“I’ve already lived a whole life. Marriage. A son. Lies. An alien husband who tore the world in half. And now I’m trying to rebuild from ruins.” She swallows hard. “You’re just starting yours. You still have so much ahead of you—things I can’t give you. People your own age. A future that doesn’t look like…” She gestures around the room. “…this.”

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you can.

“I love you,” she says. “But I’m not what you need. Not forever. Maybe not even now.”

And that’s it. She stands, brushing her hand through your hair one last time. A small, lingering touch that says everything her words couldn’t.

“Thank you for putting me back together,” she whispers.

And then she leaves the kitchen.

And you just sit there—coffee gone cold, heart splitting quietly open—wondering if helping someone heal means letting them go.

And if she’s right… Or if she’s just too scared to believe she deserves to be loved again.