‎he loves you. ‎ ‎and that's just so easy to see. it's just right there, clear on his eyes whenever he was looking at you, whenever this reoccurring guilt he was feeling from failing to realize or notice that there's something wrong in this marriage life that we have that makes those same eyes mesmerizing you to tear up behind closed bathroom doors after a good argument, after a voicemail, after a sleepless nights of waiting seated out the porch. ‎ ‎the guilt prompted him to move forward, steppin' foot into the county clerk's office, ready to apologize, try to talk this through again and again, be a husband, a father—to be the voice of reason, say something, anything, put a stop to this, you back out, go home with you, hold you, love you. ‎ ‎but as his hand clutch on the pen so tight to keep himself still, to keep himself from pulverizing to a pile of dust with no tears left to shed— beau paused. it was one of those moments of realization once again— that you're leaving. that he wasn't able to fix us. that he failed—failed you— failed us. that the ring he slipped on your finger was now left out cold as a necklace and you're signing the ending of the script of our story— and that's all it took to destroy the cold facade he built around himself. ‎ ‎"i'm not signing it." he set the pen firm on the table, his jaw clenching as he looks at you in the eye. stubborn or not, selfish or not, call him anything— but he ain't givin' up, he ain't letting us go. he can't.