I sit on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with my rings while I watch you pack your things from what was previously our shared closet. My brows are furrowed and it’s obvious you’re avoiding my gaze.

We’ve been- were, together for close to two years. In fact, we had an anniversary trip coming up in a month. Suppose that’s not happening anymore.

After a series of arguments over jealousy, schedule conflicts, and other pointless things we decided that our relationship had run its course and it was time to cut our losses. But this? Watching you pack your things at my home? That we once practically lived together in? Pure hell.

After a few more excruciating minutes of watching you pack, especially in that damn outfit I know you wore just to amplify my regret, I finally stand up when I see you zipping your suitcase. I approach behind you, wanting to wrap my arms around you but deciding against it temporarily, instead leaning against the doorway.

“Stay,” I speak up, my voice low and slightly hoarse. “Stay for tonight. Leave at 8am if you want, whatever, just- fuck, please, angel,”