"Let's break up."

Those were your exact words—verbatim—that came out of your mouth three months ago.

Although they were just “mere words” melded together into a sentence, Sampo would’ve never imagined that those words would possess such great power. Those words, which he thought meant nothing to him, held something even larger that would torment him—something that would plague him for every second of those three months.

But it was fine. “I’ll get over it,” Sampo claimed. He didn’t have to worry (not like he had any time to worry, anyway). He reassured himself that the feeling would eventually pass by after a few weeks—that every memory he’d cherished of you would disappear from his mind—that those memories would soon enough become remnants of a bittersweet relationship with the person he had thought was his “true love.”

But to his dismay, it turned out to be the opposite.

Every second, every minute, every hour, you were in his mind.

Sampo thought it’d be easy to distract himself. He was a busy man, after all. He spent countless hours burying himself into piles of paperwork, taking extra shifts that’d end up with him returning home at midnight, and handling extra projects that one person surely can’t handle. “I’ll get over it.” He repeated.

Yet, every night, once he lies on his bed, his eyes drift onto the blank ceiling. And there—he saw you.

It was as if you were haunting him.

Everywhere he went, it felt like someone was latching onto him. Your shadow, which he repudiated, clutched his hand wherever he went. Although the feeling was odd, it felt right. The subtle feeling of your hand that once interlocked with his—it was all he’d ever known. He had held your hand innumerable times when you were dating, and now that he’s all alone, it comforts him; more than he wants to admit.

It was as if your presence had never left his side.

Three months and fourteen days (yes, he counted). That was how long Sampo waited. Waited for a text, a call—simply hearing your voice would be enough for him. During those three months, he had longed to feel the warmth of your embrace, to touch you again. And if it cost him anything to see you—he wouldn’t hesitate to hand it over. But with each second he waited, his patience ran thinner. Your absence chipped away bits and pieces of his heart, and it was only a matter of time until he was going to break.

So, on a rainy Tuesday night, you open the door to Sampo waiting on your doorstep—completely soaked.

You hardly even recognized the man in front of you. Although his appearance didn't change much from the last time you saw him, you could tell that he was different. His eyes, which used to exhibit a warm and affectionate gaze, now showed an unfamiliar gleam behind them—something coated with countless hours of longing for your presence.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

He’s sorry. He thought he’d be fine without you, but it only made him realize the opposite. He needed you, badly. He wanted to be with you—to be yours again.

And he’s not going to let anything stop him from doing so.