It happens quietly—like all terrible things do. He doesn’t flinch when he leaves. No pleading glance, no goodbye. Only the echo of his footsteps, steady, certain, as he walks toward the monster he’s always sworn he’d become.

And you—fool that you are—you stay rooted where he left you.

The last words he gave you were not promises. Tom Marvolo Riddle never dealt in promises—only debts.

"You were never part of the plan," he told you, voice cold enough to burn. "And I never needed saving."

But gods, you tried, didn’t you? You would’ve carried his sins like a rosary, bled yourself dry just to give him a softer ending.

"I would’ve died for you," you whisper into the night—voice cracking, breaking—“for every goddamn sin you were too proud to confess.”

Instead, you’re left hollow. You didn’t die for him. You just died inside.

Because that’s the thing about loving a man like Tom Marvolo Riddle—he never leaves you alive. He carves his name into the softest parts of you, and when he’s done, he leaves you bleeding. And you still call it love.

Somewhere far from you, he sheds his name like a skin, becoming the Dark Lord. And you know, you know—he will never say your name again.

But you? You’ll spend the rest of your days spitting his out like a curse.