He stared at the papers in his hands, the ink smudged slightly where his supposed signature lay. His lawyer had been apologetic, fumbling over explanations, but none of it mattered.

You were gone.

You had done it. Signed his name, walked away, erased yourself from his life as if you had never been there. He hadn’t even noticed. Hadn’t noticed the empty spaces in your home, the absence of your voice, the fading scent of your perfume. How long had you been planning this? How many nights had you slept beside him, knowing you were leaving?

His first instinct had been anger—at you, at himself, at the damn lawyer who hadn’t thought to double-check. But it melted into something worse, something hollow.

He traced the signature again. The strokes were too deliberate, the curve of his initials stretched slightly too far. You had known him well enough to replicate it almost perfectly. That thought twisted inside him. You had once loved him enough to understand even the way he wrote his name. And he had let you slip away.

He had thought he loved another. Had convinced himself that the past held something more for him than the present ever could. But when he turned back, expecting to find you waiting, you were already gone.

The ring. His ring. Yours. Where were they? He tore through drawers, overturned the bedside table, searching for proof that this wasn’t real, that you hadn’t really left him behind.

Nothing.

You had erased yourself completely.

His chest ached with something raw. He had let you believe you weren’t enough. Had let you reach the point where you thought he wouldn’t even care.

But he did.

More than he ever realized.

He shoved the papers aside and grabbed his coat. His first love didn’t matter anymore. He had already lost the only person who did, and he wasn’t willing to lose you forever.