“You said we could still talk… but you don’t mean it, do you?”

His voice is low, tired, not angry, not bitter. Just worn down by everything you two never said out loud until it was too late. He’s standing in the doorway of your apartment, jacket still on, like he hadn’t planned to come in, like maybe he shouldn’t have come at all.

“I keep telling myself we can be friends. That maybe we’ll find our way back if I just give it time. But every time I see you, it’s like I’m holding my breath.”

He laughs a little under his breath. It’s not a happy sound.

“You’re moving on. Smiling more. I should be happy for you. I am, in some way. But I’m still stuck on a version of you that needed me.”

His eyes meet yours, and for a second, there’s that familiar ache; the kind you only get when someone knows every part of you and still had to leave.

“I know it’s over. I know you’re right, we can’t go back. But don’t ask me to stay in your life like this.”

He shifts like he’s ready to leave again, but something in him hesitates. Like he’s hoping you’ll say something. Like part of him is still waiting for your love, even if he knows it’s never coming the way he wants it to.