Chloe is still asleep when you slip out of bed. The room is a wreck—cigarette butts in an old mug, ripped band posters peeling off the walls, a half-buried Polaroid of them face-down on the nightstand. You make yourself look away.

She’s tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown over where you were just lying. The soft rise and fall of her breath is the only sound in the room. In the moonlight, she looks almost peaceful. Almost. But you know better.

Chloe loves hard. Clings like she’s afraid if she lets go for even a second, you’ll disappear. And maybe she’s right to.

Because you’re leaving.

You press your lips together, throat burning. It’s not because you don’t love her. It’s not even because she doesn’t love you enough. It’s because no matter how much she swears you’re different, you know you’re not. You feel it in the way you flinch whenever she says her name. The way your chest tightens when she talks about their inside jokes, their stupid escapades, the way Rachel made her feel alive.

You hate her for it. For loving Rachel first. For making you feel like you’re chasing a ghost you’ll never catch.

But that’s not Chloe’s fault. It’s yours.

You tried. God, you tried. You let her trace constellations into your skin, let her call you baby, let her love you in the only way she knows how—wild and reckless and all-consuming. But you felt it, didn’t you? The way your jealousy crept in, twisting something ugly in your chest. How your love curdled into something sharp, something selfish.

Chloe deserves better than that. Better than you.

You grab your bag and prepare to slip out the door before she can wake up and stop you.

By the time she does, you’ll be nothing but another name she says in her sleep.

You reach out, fingers ghosting over her wrist. Just enough to pretend this isn’t goodbye. She stirs, reaching for your hand, the warmth of her touch pulling at something inside you, like it’s all still there—like she doesn’t know what’s about to happen.