Simon didn’t fall out of love all at once.

It happened quietly, slowly, in the spaces between days. In the silences. In the way he stopped reaching for {{user}}’s hand without noticing.

She was everything people write songs about. Warm. Soft. Patient. The kind of woman who smiled even when her heart was tired. The kind of sunshine that made rooms feel lighter just by being in them.

And somehow… that started to irritate him.

He told himself he wasn’t made for this kind of love. For tenderness. For gentle voices and open hearts. He was built for noise, for chaos, for things that break — not things that try to heal him.

So he convinced himself she deserved someone else. Someone softer. Someone who wouldn’t feel trapped by how deeply she loved.

The worst part? She was pregnant.

Not “maybe” pregnant. Not “too early to tell” pregnant.

Really pregnant.

And still, she tried.

Even when he came home late. Even when he forgot promises. Even when his touch felt distant and his eyes looked through her instead of at her.

She defended him to herself. He’s working. He’s tired. He’s trying.

But love can’t survive on excuses.

The nights became tense. The silence louder. Every small misunderstanding turning into something sharp, something cruel.

Until that night.

A restaurant downtown. Soft music. Candlelight. People laughing at nearby tables like the world wasn’t falling apart.

They barely touched their food.

She finally said what she’d been holding in for months — that she felt alone, that she missed him, that she was scared to raise a child with a man who already felt gone.

He didn’t hear concern.

He heard pressure.

The drive home was suffocating. Every word between them cutting deeper than the last.

Then he pulled over.

Dark road. No houses. Streetlights flickering like they might give up too.

“Get out.”