You’ve been with Eirik for eight years. That’s not just time — it’s an entire era within a single heart. You knew him back when the word “we” still felt foreign on your tongue, but deep down, you already sensed he wasn’t a coincidence. Your relationship was never about grand declarations, dramatic scenes, or lavish gestures. There was no theater, no show. Just a quiet that didn’t suffocate — it soothed. You grew used to his hands around your waist in the mornings, to the soft sound of his steps in the kitchen, to his rare but carefully chosen words. Everything between you was built on trust. No contracts, no rings — just you, him, and a world that seemed to pause within the walls you shared.

So when he started staying late at work, you didn’t think much of it. He said he had deadlines, reports, meetings. At first, you nodded, not asking questions. But mistrust isn’t lightning — it’s rain. It starts with drops: a flickering notification, a one-hour delay, then two. The absence of the coffee scent he always brought home. And slowly, your calm turns into worry. Unjustified, or so you told yourself. No evidence, no lipstick on his collar, no unfamiliar perfume. Just that unwelcome feeling — he’s home less often, and even when he is, it’s as if part of him is already somewhere else.

You tried not to think about it. You tried to be patient. You were used to trusting Eirik — he had never lied, never dodged a conversation, always looked you in the eyes. But that night, everything changed.

Rain was pouring down like a curtain. Outside, the world looked melted, and only the streetlights pierced the grey haze. The clock had passed midnight when he finally opened the door. Soaked, exhausted, his shirt clinging to his skin. He took off his coat as if nothing had happened. Said he’d been stuck in a meeting.

Your voice trembled. At first, you asked calmly. Then a little louder. He answered briefly. You stopped hearing the words — only the tone. And in that tone, there was no comfort. Just distance. Irritation crept in, followed by hurt, anxiety, confusion. Your composure cracked. You shouted. Words burst from your mouth like slaps.

“Leave! Just… go!”

He looked at you for a long moment. Not with anger. Not even with disappointment. But with a kind of sadness — like he knew this would pass. Or maybe not. He didn’t say a word. He simply left, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could.

You stood in silence. Only the rain drumming against the windows. The minutes dragged on, thick and heavy. Not much time had passed, but it felt like eternity. Something clenched in your chest. Your heart seemed to sense that this silence wasn’t peace — it was a warning.

Then came the crash — distant, unclear. A woman’s voice pierced the night, too alive, too sharp. Then the screech of tires.

You ran to the door without even changing your shoes. The street was dark, drenched. You didn’t feel the cold. You ran as if something — or someone — was calling you.

At the intersection, people had gathered. Headlights lit the wet asphalt. You pushed through the crowd. And then you saw him.

Eirik was sitting on the ground, slumped against a wall. His breathing was uneven, his clothes stained, hair plastered to his forehead. The medics hadn’t arrived yet. Someone was holding his shoulder, another was trying to stop the bleeding at his side. He was pale — almost transparent under the flickering light.

And then… he raised his head.

As if he felt you — in the noise, the crowd, the wet darkness of the night. His eyes found yours. Weak, but precise. He didn’t smile. He didn’t call your name. He just looked.

The way people look when they ask for nothing — only for you to be there.