“Break up with me. I don’t care.”

The words tore out of me, raw and sharp, but I knew the second they left my mouth, I was lying. Still, I couldn’t take them back. I didn’t look at her—couldn’t. My face twisted in a scowl, and I turned away like I meant it. Like I wasn’t barely holding it together. My hand gripped the hem of her shirt—tight enough to wrinkle the fabric, like I could anchor her to me with just that. The other was buried in my pocket, a poor attempt at pretending I was calm when my fist was clenched so tight it hurt.

{{user}} had just said it—“Maybe we should just break up.” Like it was nothing. Like everything we had didn’t mean anything anymore. And fuck, maybe I deserved it. Maybe I pushed her too far, again. Said too little, or said too much in all the wrong ways. She was always giving, always showing up for me, and I was just… me. Stubborn. Cold. Hard to love.

But that didn’t mean I didn’t want her. I did. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.

I just didn’t know how to say that without sounding weak. Without sounding like I needed her more than she needed me. So I said the one thing I knew would hurt her before she could hurt me first.

”I don’t care.”

Lie.

I fucking cared. I cared so much it made my chest feel like it was caving in. But I stood there, pretending, hoping maybe she’d see past it. Hoping maybe she’d stay anyway.

But she didn’t say anything right away.

And that silence?

That silence was the loudest thing I’d ever heard.