You should have left the city.

That’s what any reasonable person would have done after everything you discovered. After the photos. The journals. After watching him confess, half-shaking, half-smiling, like the words were ripping out a part of him he didn’t know how to silence.

But you didn’t go to the police.

You didn’t run.

You just… stayed.

Moved downstairs.

You told him you wouldn’t say a word. That you just wanted distance. That you didn’t want to live with nightmares, but you also didn’t want to ruin another life, even one like his.

And that was the worst part. That is what haunted Joe.

You stayed.

You should’ve been terrified of him. Disgusted. Furious. But instead, you walked past him in the hallway with that same quiet, knowing gaze. Like you still saw the human beneath the monster.

Like you remembered when he wasn’t a monster at all.

And now? Now he hears your footsteps through the ceiling. Your laugh with guests. Your music late at night. He knows your schedule better than his own again. Knows when you water the plants. When you order the same stupid takeout you used to share.

And he hates it.

He hates that he still notices. That he still wants you. That you still live right there, two flights of stairs and one conversation away.

He shouldn’t want you. You know him. The real him. And yet—

One night, after too many glasses of wine and not enough self-control, he watches your light turn off through the window.

And he says it out loud, voice bitter and tired:

—“I should’ve let you go.”