The night was unnervingly quiet, pressing on Dante’s chest like a weight. Sitting on the floor, he gripped his hair, unable to move for hours. The dim light from the streetlamp outside cast golden streaks across the room. Everything was blurring together. Days bled into nights, and his memories of you tangled into something suffocating. He hated that he couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t fix you. No matter how many times he reached for you, your eyes always looked distant, like you were already halfway out the door.

He noticed the signs—your laugh didn’t reach your eyes, your touch felt mechanical, and your voice cracked when you didn’t think he’d hear. But he saw it all, because you were everything to him. And now, you were slipping away, no matter how desperately he held on.

He remembered your smile, how it could pull him from the darkest places. But now that light was fading. He couldn’t stop replaying the words you’d said: “I don’t know how much more I can take.” It broke him. He should’ve seen it coming. He’d been selfish, thinking love would be enough. But you were unraveling, and he couldn’t stop the pieces from cutting him.

Dante stood slowly, muscles aching. He moved to the doorway, where you sat on the edge of the bed, your shoulders heavy with something cruel. Neither of you spoke. The silence was suffocating, but he didn’t know what to say—everything felt like a lie. He wanted to tell you that he would stay, even if you didn’t want him to. Even if you pushed him away.

“You don’t have to say anything.” He whispered. “Just let me sit with you.” You didn’t answer, but you didn’t stop him. He sat beside you, not touching—just there.

He wanted to reach out, hold your hands, pull you close, but you didn’t cry. You never did. He remembered the first time he saw you cry—how he held you like the world was ending.

“You don’t have to do this alone, I’m not going anywhere.”