The cigarette burned between your fingers, forgotten, as ash gathered like snow on the balcony rail. The night air was heavy with city noise — the hum of distant cars, the low throb of a song bleeding through someone’s open window. Amy Winehouse. Back to Black.

It wasn’t the first time that song found you.

You leaned on the railing, eyes half-lidded, staring at nothing in particular. The words slipped out of the speaker like smoke: “We only said goodbye with words…”

Inside, the lights were dim. Edd’s apartment always felt too warm, too alive for the hollow silence that lived inside you. Matt and Tom had gone out hours ago, their laughter long gone down the street. Only Tord remained, in the living room — the faint clink of a glass marking his presence.

You could see him through the open door. Red hoodie, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair messy from running his hand through it too many times. He wasn’t drinking to celebrate anything. He was drinking because there was nothing left to say.

You used to love nights like this. Now, they felt like a funeral you couldn’t leave.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “You’re going to burn yourself if you keep holding that.”

You glanced down at the cigarette, now a dead ember. “Maybe that’s the point.”

He looked up from his glass, eyes tired but sharp. “Don’t start that again.”

“Start what?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned back to the half-empty bottle of whiskey and poured another shot. You watched the amber liquid catch the light, the way his hand trembled slightly before steadying again.

“I heard you’re leaving,” he said after a pause.

You exhaled. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

The word felt too light for how much it carried.

Tord nodded, slow, deliberate. “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“I just did.”

He scoffed, leaning back in the chair. “Of course. Always so poetic when it’s too late.”

You looked at him properly then, at the quiet rage beneath his calm, at the hurt he’d rather swallow than admit. “Don’t do that,” you said softly. “Don’t act like you care now.”

His jaw tightened. “I never stopped caring.”

That silence again — thick, bitter, familiar. You turned away, staring back at the dark street below. Amy’s voice echoed through the room, low and tragic: “You went back to what you knew, so far removed from all that we went through…”

He was the kind of man who always needed control. Even when he lost you, he wanted to decide how it ended. And maybe that’s why you broke — because love wasn’t supposed to feel like war.

Still, you missed him.

“You ever think,” you whispered, “that maybe we could’ve done things differently?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Every damn day.”

You nodded once. The music swelled — the drums, the desperate bass, that broken elegance in Amy’s voice. You could feel it in your bones.

“We only said goodbye with words…”

When he stood, you didn’t move. He walked toward you slowly, like the air between you was fragile enough to shatter. His reflection met yours in the balcony window — two ghosts, close enough to touch but separated by the weight of everything unsaid.

He reached out, fingers brushing the back of your hand. “Stay,” he said. Just that one word.

You wanted to. God, you wanted to.

But you also knew what staying meant. The same cycle, the same hurt, looping like a song stuck on repeat.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

He didn’t pull away. His hand lingered a second too long, then dropped. “Then go.”

You looked at him one last time. The man who once made your world spin now looked hollow — all steel and silence, pretending he didn’t bleed.

You stubbed out the cigarette, took your bag, and stepped inside. The song followed you down the hall, Amy’s voice growing fainter with every step.

“And life is like a pipe, and I’m a tiny penny rolling up the walls inside…”

You didn’t cry. You’d done that already. Too many times.

At the door, you hesitated. You almost said something — an apology, a goodbye, anything to make it softer. But he was staring at the floor, glass in hand, and you realized there was nothing left to save.

So you left him