You didn’t mean to shut the door like that. Didn’t mean for your words to sound so sharp. Didn’t mean to leave him standing there, looking like he was trying not to shatter.

But you did.

You always do.

And he always stays, at least until he can’t.

⸻

You’re sitting on the bathroom floor hours later, phone face down, legs numb from the cold tile. It’s past midnight, and the only thing playing in your head is his voice — quiet, frayed around the edges:

“Why do you always run when I’m just trying to be close to you?”

You didn’t answer him then.

You didn’t have it in you to say: Because when you look at me like I matter, it hurts worse than when people don’t.

⸻

He texts you once.

Are you okay?

You stare at the words like they’re in another language. You don’t reply. You don’t deserve to.

⸻

The next morning, you go to the café where you used to meet every Thursday. The barista gives you a small smile, the kind that says I know something’s wrong but I’m not going to ask. You order what he likes. You carry it in your hands like an apology.

He doesn’t come.

You leave it on his doorstep with a sticky note: “I love you. I’m sorry.”

No signature. He knows your handwriting too well.

⸻

You remember the way he looked at you in the beginning — like you were something soft in a world that had made him sharp. You remember the day he told you he loved you and how you froze.

“Say something,” he begged.

You did.

But not the right thing.

⸻

The next time he calls, you almost don’t pick up.

When you do, you don’t say hello. Just breathe.

He’s quiet too.

Then, he says:

“Why do you keep pushing me away if you love me?”

You whisper it, finally:

“Because I don’t know how to be loved without hurting someone.”

You expect silence. You expect a click.

But all he says is:

“Then let me teach you.”

And somehow, that hurts more than anything.

Because even when he forgives you, you still feel like you don’t deserve it.

⸻

You still mess up after that.

You still flinch when he touches your hand too gently. You still pick fights over nothing. Still forget to answer texts. Still disappear into your own head.

But you start leaving notes on his pillow: • “Thank you for not leaving.” • “I wish I knew how to be softer.” • “You make me want to try.”

He never says much. Just holds you a little tighter each time.

You still say “I’m sorry” too much. Still don’t say “I love you” enough.

But one night, when your voice breaks and your chest aches and all you can do is press your forehead against his shoulder and cry like the world is ending.