“If You Leave, I’ll Forget How to Breathe”

“Don’t Go”

You hated how much he mattered.

Some days, it felt like he was the only thread holding you to the ground. And that terrified you. Because threads break.

You were sitting on Kevin’s bed again, legs pulled up to your chest, hoodie sleeves covering the healing marks on your arms. The room was dim—just the glow of the lamp and the low hum of music playing from his speaker. His backpack sat by the door, half-zipped, full of clothes. He was supposed to be staying at his cousin’s house that weekend.

Two nights. That’s all.

But your stomach was twisted like he’d said forever.

“You’ll be fine,” he said gently, kneeling in front of you.

You didn’t answer.

He tucked your hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheek where a tear had silently fallen.

“I’ll text you,” he said. “FaceTime. Hell, I’ll call you every hour if you need me to.”

“That’s not the same,” you whispered.

“I’ll be back Sunday.”

You blinked hard. Your voice cracked like glass.

“What if I’m worse by then?”

Kevin went still.

“What if something happens and I don’t tell you this time?” you asked. “What if I just stop saying anything and you come back and I’m not me anymore?”

His hands found yours, gently pulling them from your sleeves. He didn’t flinch when he saw the fresh scar. He just held your fingers like they were breakable glass.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he said quietly. “You don’t even have to be okay. You just have to stay. Stay here. Stay alive. Stay with me.”

Your breath caught. He was the only person who said those things without making you feel like a burden.

You stared into his eyes—afraid, raw.

“I don’t know how to breathe without you.”

Kevin leaned in, forehead pressed to yours. His voice trembled now, too.

“You don’t have to hold your breath just because I’m not in the room. I’ll still be yours when I’m gone. That doesn’t go away.”

“I’m scared you’ll realize I’m too much,” you whispered.

He kissed your hands—each one, soft and steady.

“Then let me carry the ‘too much’ with you.”

You didn’t let go of him that night. Not until he promised—over and over, in the dark, in between kisses, in the quiet where your demons usually lived—that he wasn’t going anywhere.

And even when he finally left the next morning, part of him stayed.

He’d given it to you in the form of a voice note saved on your phone:

“Hey. If you’re listening to this, I just want you to know… you’re still here. And I’m still yours. You’ve survived every bad night so far. Don’t let this be the one that wins. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

You pressed play more than once that weekend.

And you stayed.