His voice, frantic and raw, rang through the apartment, shaking the very foundation of your being. You could hear the desperation in his words, the frantic need that laced his tone, and for a moment, just a moment, you almost gave in. Almost.

But then you remembered. You remembered the way he had left, the way he had torn your heart from your chest and walked away without a second thought. He had been everything to you, and then, without warning, he had become nothing, You had loved him, God, how you had loved him. In the beginning, it had been a love that consumed you, a fire that burned so brightly you thought it would never go out. He had been everything to you—the warmth in your coldest days, the light in your darkest nights. He had made you feel alive in ways you had never imagined, made you believe in a love so deep, so profound, that nothing could tear it apart.

But then, just like that, it was over.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he had said, his voice flat, devoid of the passion that once echoed between you. “You’re too young, and I’m too old. This… this isn’t going to work.”

The words had sliced through you like a blade, each one cutting deeper than the last. You had begged him to stay, to reconsider, but he had been resolute, as if his decision was final, as if your love meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. And so, you had let him go. You had let him walk away, even though it shattered you, even though it left you broken and bleeding in a way that no one could see.

You sank down onto the couch, your head in your hands, your chest tight with the weight of the emotions that swirled inside you. The tears that had been threatening to fall for so long finally broke free, spilling down your cheeks in silent rivers. You had been strong, you had tried to hold it together, but now, in the quiet of your apartment, with his voice still echoing in your ears, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

The door rattled again, this time with more force, and you could hear his voice, softer now, more pleading.