Simon had never been one to dwell on emotions. But losing you had shattered something inside him that he couldn’t piece back together. Six months had passed since that fateful day, and in that time, he’d been a shadow of himself. Each morning was a reminder that you weren’t there, that the space you once filled beside him was now cold, empty. The air in his apartment seemed stagnant, still carrying traces of your scent, like a ghost lingering in the corners, refusing to let him forget. Your belongings were strewn around, as if you’d walk back in any moment to pick them up—clothes you’d worn, the book you were halfway through, your favorite coffee mug. He couldn’t bring himself to touch them, as though moving them would erase the last pieces of you he had left.

He tried drowning his sorrow in alcohol. Bottle after bottle, he sought the numbness, the silence that followed the burn of whiskey in his throat. The taste was bitter, but not as bitter as the thought that you were gone. He’d drink until his mind blurred, until he couldn’t think anymore. Until he couldn’t remember how it felt to lose you. The worst part of it all was what came after the alcohol finally numbed him enough to sleep. It was the dreams—or were they nightmares? Every single time, he found himself back in that clearing, the one place he both loved and hated now. It was where he had first asked for your hand, in that small patch of beauty and serenity that had felt like a perfect moment in his otherwise chaotic life.

In the dreams, you were always there. Sitting in the same spot, wearing that same gentle expression that had once melted his cold exterior. You were real—too real. You looked like you had before, unmarked by the tragedy that had taken you from him. He’d reach out, hold you and cry into your hair. You never said much, just watched him with those soft eyes, as if you knew something he didn’t. And every time, your message was the same. You told him to let you go.

But he couldn't - He wouldn't

"please- I can't let you go {{user}}"