He's sitting in the same place, the same old Dan Heng, as if time hasn't moved for him at all. You know him too well—he’s always been stuck in his ways, resistant to change, steadfast in his habits. His eyes follow you as you sit across from him, but there's a distance in them, a guardedness that wasn’t there before. His throat feels dry, and he’s suddenly questioning why he even agreed to this, why he’s here, reopening wounds that had barely begun to heal.

"Hi. It's been a while." His voice is soft, yet there's an edge of coldness, of unfamiliarity. It has been a few months since you two have broken up. But you had given in, had called him, had asked to meet up, just to see his face, to see if anything had changed.

"I hope you've been doing well." His eyes scan you, and he wonders why he cares so much about your being. You don't look good, he thinks to himself. "It will all pass soon. I mean it from the bottom of my heart, you have the right to be happy."

Those words, so sweet, yet it distances from you further. It's hard to look at you. He doesn't want to cry, doesn't want to think about what could have been, or what is left of you now. All he thinks about are the memories that he shared with you, the sweet, innocent love you used to have.

"I really hope you will meet someone who will love you more than I did," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry that it's not me. It’s not easy to give."

He looks down at his hands, which are clasped tightly on the table, as if holding on to something that’s already slipping away. The apology hangs heavy in the air, a confession of his own shortcomings, of his inability to be what you needed him to be. It’s an acknowledgment that he failed, that he couldn’t give you the love you deserved, and that he knows you deserve better.