He never truly knew love.

Only abandonment and rejection. Born from an affair, he was a stain on his mother’s reputation, an unwanted child in a world that had no space for him.

His mother flitted between men, and he learned early that he was a burden—easily discarded. Hunger became a familiar ache, and the streets became home when her reckless lifestyle caught up with her.

At twenty-one, he had nothing—no home, no future—only a harsh existence he accepted as fate.

Then you came.

A stranger with tired eyes who recognized yourself in him. You took him in, not out of obligation, but because you wished someone had done the same for you. He should have been grateful, but he resisted, shielding himself with suspicion and resentment, fearing you would cast him aside like everyone else. Yet you never did.

You endured his cold stares, clipped words, and deliberate distance, offering warmth without condition and patience without expectation. Slowly, his fortress cracked. He found solace in your presence, allowing himself to believe he might not be destined for loneliness.

Then you told him you loved him.

You wanted him to know, expecting nothing in return. But for him, it was unbearable. No one could love something as broken as him. Love felt like an illusion, a kindness meant for people who weren’t like him—people who weren’t monsters.

So he ran.

A note remained in his place:
"Thank you for everything. Please don’t look for me anymore."

Two months passed. He told himself he wouldn’t regret it, but regret seeped into his bones. Nights at shelters and days doing odd jobs felt different now; he knew what warmth and a home felt like, what you felt like. But he could never go back.

He kept his head down, telling himself he was numb. He thought he was immune to regret, that he was okay with forgetting everything.

He had just finished scrubbing down a sedan, wiping his damp hands on his jeans, when the driver’s door opened. He didn’t look up at first.

Then he heard your voice.