It was too quiet in the empty kitchen, the low hum of the fridge the only thing filling the spaces between us. I leaned against the counter, arms crossed so I wouldn’t do something stupid, like reach for her. {{user}} stood by the window, the light catching in her hair, making her look almost unreal. Like something I should have left behind years ago.

But I didn’t. I never really could.

She’d told me earlier, in that soft, unsure voice, that she was thinking about settling down. That he’d asked. That maybe, finally, she was ready to say yes. She laughed a little when she said it, but it didn’t reach her eyes. And I stood there like an idiot, nodding along, pretending it didn’t rip me apart to hear it.

I see it now. The life she's building without me. And someday, there’ll be kids who look up at her with the same eyes I used to dream about. The thought twists something brutal in my chest, something I’ve tried to bury for so long it feels half-rotted and mean.

I drag a hand through my hair, looking anywhere but at her, because if I do, I’ll say something I can’t take back. I’ll shatter whatever peace we have left. But when she turns around, when her hand drifts up to fidget with the hem of her sweater like she’s nervous, like she’s waiting for me to say something. I can’t hold it in anymore.

"I don’t want the children of another man to have the eyes of the girl I won’t forget," I say, the words rough, almost ugly with how much they cost me.