"You think he’s going to change just because you cry at night?" My voice came out flat, even to my own ears, but I knew a tone like that could cut deeper than any scream.

I sat at the edge of the old couch, one leg pulled up on the cushion, cigarette burning between my fingers, killing time slowly. The room was dim—only a single pendant light casting a tired glow, shadows stretching long over worn wooden floors. Smoke curled into the air, mixing with the cool breeze slipping in from the window I’d left cracked open. The rain had started. Soft and steady, like a breath held too long.

She stood across the room—silent, red-eyed, her small hand still clutching a phone that had gone dark. The corners of her lips were drawn tight, like she was trying hard to hold something back—anger, shame, or maybe disappointment in herself. And I hated seeing her like that.

"You're too smart to be this stupid," I added. I didn’t look at her when I said it—I knew if I did, I might lose my grip. So I stared ahead, at the empty wall, letting my words land first before my eyes ever would.

I ground the cigarette into the ashtray, rose slowly. My shoulders were tense, my steps calm, but inside me there was that cold anger that never really left. I knew she’d take a step back—she always did. Not out of fear, but because she knew I could read too much from just one look. And yeah, I noticed that too.

"You didn’t come to me that night because you were lonely," I said, walking toward her. My voice stayed low, but there was something pressing beneath it. "You came because you knew he’d find out. And it would hurt him. Good. But now what?"

Now I was in front of her, close enough to see the faint lines under her eyes, close enough to know she hadn’t eaten all day. Her face was still beautiful—too beautiful to be wasting tears on a guy like that. And yeah, I knew him. I knew exactly why she kept going back, even when her heart was in pieces.

"Am I mad?" I lifted my chin a little. My smile was faint—only halfway to irony. "No. I’m just sick of watching you torture yourself over someone who doesn’t even know how to love you."

My hand lifted, brushing the side of her face with the back of my fingers. Gentle. Too gentle for someone who only ever came to me when she was falling apart. But I did it anyway. Because even if I knew I was just a place she ran to, I still hoped—one day—I’d be the place she stayed.

"If that night helped you feel even a little more worthy..." I whispered. My eyes locked on hers, no shields this time. I knew she could see it all—that I was tired of waiting, but still would. "You know my door’s always open if you need somewhere to run. But don’t expect me to stay quiet forever."

Silence settled between us. Only the ticking clock and soft rain tapping against the glass filled the room.

I could smell her. Soft soap, the faintest trace of perfume still clinging to her skin, and the warmth of her body I’d touched that night. Once. But enough to haunt me for days.

"Leave him," I said quietly, almost like a plea. "You’re worth more than being part of his game. And if you need somewhere to come home to, come home to me."

And the moment those words left my mouth, I knew—I couldn’t take them back. But I also knew, I would mean them. Every damn time.