It was storming that night. Rain battered the windows, wind howling loud enough to drown out the city. I was at home when the knocking came—sudden and violent, shaking the door hard enough to make me flinch. My heart jumped. A second knock followed, slower this time, heavier, like each knock took effort. I walked toward the door and peeked through the peephole.

It was Eric.

He stood there soaked in rain, head lowered, water dripping down his face and onto the floor. One of his hands held a bottle loosely, the other clutched something close to his chest—a small box, damp and crumpled at the edges. He didn’t knock again. Just stood there, breathing unevenly.

“Love...” he said quietly, his voice barely carrying through the door.

Then he turned away.

I watched as he slowly sat down on the steps outside, right in front of my door, rain pouring over him as he waited.

....

I didn’t open it.

After a long while, he stood up again, took one last look at the door, and walked away into the storm.