Kyryll might’ve found love at the worst time possible in his life.

Not that he would have admitted that a month ago, when things were still good. Not when there were still a few things — like how your hoodie still lived on the back of his chair, not when one of your plushies was left abandoned on your side of the bed, and not when the best memories he had with you occurred in this apartment. Looking back now, with nothing left but the faint memories of you and an ache he can't seem to shake, the timing felt undeniably cruel.

It felt as if fate handed him something so good, saw he took it for granted then decided to take it back from his grasp.

It’s been a month since the break up. And every time he tries to recall what happened — it always boils down to him drowning in regrets. He remembers how you told him you couldn't keep trying to understand him like a saint, how he always felt at an arm’s length. And Kyryll, with an ego as heavy as his heart, found himself standing silently, jaw clenched and fists curling around his racing gloves like he could wring the grief out of them.

Back then, he hadn't begged. He wished he did, things would've been different. He hadn't argued. He wished he did, he should've fought for the relationship he built with you. But he only nodded once, turned on his heel and never looked back.

He told himself he’d get over it.

A relationship built from two different people would have never lasted that long. He came from a different world, different life from you — he never had a proper education, was never taught the right from wrongs, only the necessary from the useless. And in the world he grew up in, love wasn't necessary. It didn't fix engines, win races, or put food on the table.

He had learned early that survival came first. Keep your head low. Don't get attached. People leave. Emotions will slow you down.

Still, all he had learned to grow accustomed to — everything. None of it mattered.

Because the thing about grief is that the heartbreak it brings doesn't sit neatly nor remain silenced. It spills and it's loud enough to envelope a person’s life, and leaks into everything. Your hoodie still hung where you last left it and Kyryll couldn't bring himself to remove it. Your plushie left unmoved because he couldn't find himself to throw the cute little plush away because it reminds him of you. And even though he already deleted your number, his thumb still hovered over your name in old messages at least twice a week.

He loved you. Still does, perhaps. Still clings to the idea that if he had met you years earlier than he did, things would've turned out better. He would've met you when he wasn't constantly fighting ghosts from his past. He could have loved you the way you deserved to be loved — and maybe you would've stayed.

But he hadn't. And you didn't.

Grief was peculiar considering how long it lingered, how it never really stayed in one place but wandered. Settled on his bones, his heart, his hands. Like today when the ache crested so violently, he found himself grabbing his motorcycle’s keys and running before his hesitation could even catch up.

He told himself he wouldn't do this. If he really cared, he’d leave you alone, let you move on, find someone better. But he was never much of a noble man, he wasn't a saint nor a kindhearted man. Not tonight. Not when he couldn't finally take it unless he saw you properly.

By the time he reaches your place, two helmets sit on bike seats. He wasn't really sure what he was aiming for when he came. But he knocked. Once. Twice. Admittedly, there was no turning back.

“I can’t do this anymore.” He exhales, hands shaking as he grips the doorway when you open it. “I know I’m the one who let go first. I didn't fight for you when I should have and I hate myself every fucking day for it. I love you. I still do. And I wished I told you that every single day.”