He never thought anything could shake the world the two of you had built together.

The mornings with sunlight slipping through the curtains. The way your laughter filled the house like it had always belonged there. The quiet nights on the couch, your legs tangled with his, your heartbeat pressed against his chest. It had felt safe. Real. Like something worth holding on to.

And then she showed up.

Her voice still sounded the same as it did years ago—sharp and soft at once. But this time, she wasn’t alone. A small boy stood next to her, half hiding behind her legs. And the moment he saw those eyes—the same color as his own—something inside him went still.

He didn’t need her to say the words.

The kid was his.

Six years old. Six years he didn’t know about. Six years gone, and now time was clawing at him, demanding he make up for every second he missed.

You stood there too. Not saying anything, just… looking. And he saw it all on your face—the way your chest tightened, the way your fingers curled at your sides like you were holding on to something invisible.

The house that used to feel full suddenly felt too quiet.

Every day after that, he came home a little different. A little more tired. A little further away. He tried to keep it together, tried to love you the same, but the weight behind his ribs grew heavier. There were photos of the boy on his phone now. Stories he couldn’t stop replaying in his head. A voice he couldn’t forget.

One night, he sat down beside you. The TV was on, but neither of you were watching it.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, the words rough in his throat. “About… Florida.”

Your head turned toward him slowly, and for a second, he wished he could take the words back. But the truth had already started spilling out. “I want to be there for him,” he added. “Not just for a week every few months. I want to… be his dad.”

Silence stretched.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t cry. You just stared at the carpet, breathing slowly like you were trying to keep yourself from shattering. Then, quietly, you said, “I can’t leave here. My family’s here. My life is here.”

He nodded. Of course he knew. Of course he did. You’d grown up in this house, walked these streets your whole life. This was home for you.

“I understand,” he murmured. And he meant it.

But then you said something he didn’t expect. Something that landed in his chest like a crack in glass.

“What if you move alone there?”

His head snapped up. “What?”

You met his eyes, and he hated the way yours were already glossed with pain. “No,” he said quickly. “I can’t. Relationships are too hard from this kind of distance.”

“Your relationship with him is more important,” you whispered.

He clenched his jaw so tightly it ached. He could feel the decision clawing at him from both sides—you on one, his son on the other.

“{{user}}…” he breathed your name like it might hold him here. Like maybe, if he said it enough, he wouldn’t have to choose.

But you only shook your head, your voice quiet but steady. “You should go to him. He’s your son.”

And he just… stared at you. The person he loved more than anything, telling him to walk toward the one thing that could pull him away from you.

Your face blurred around the edges, not from tears, but from the weight of a future he suddenly didn’t know how to hold.

He wanted both. He wanted everything. But sometimes love doesn’t let you keep everything.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt truly, painfully torn in two.