The hallway was dim, washed in the cold light of a flickering ceiling bulb. Dust floated through the silence, hanging like the words you couldn’t bring herself to say. He stood there, rigid, with his coat collar turned up and suitcase by his feet. The kind of stillness that felt permanent—like he was already gone.

You watched him from across the narrow space, your fingers twitching at your sides, nails digging into your palms. Your throat burned with all the things you'd rehearsed in the mirror but couldn’t say now—not with the finality in his eyes.

His gaze was everywhere but your: the peeling wallpaper, the stain on the carpet, the old photo by the door. Never yours. Never once.

“This was always going to end,” he said flatly, voice stripped of softness. “We just kept pretending it wouldn’t.”

You took a step forward, heels clicking too loudly in the silence. Your breath hitched as you reached out, fingertips grazing the sleeve of his coat. It was soft—worn in. Familiar.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t turn either.

“I’m not doing this again,” he added, his tone clipped, almost tired. “Not with you.”

A tremor moved through your chest, like your heart was trying to break through the ribs to stop him. Not with logic. Not with begging. Just with presence.

The suitcase’s wheels creaked as he adjusted it. A small, simple sound. But to you, it was deafening. Your lips parted, and though you barely spoke above a whisper, it was all you had left.

“Don’t go.”

He paused.