I had to make the hardest choice of my life.

Losing you.

God, it wasn’t what either of us wanted. It never was. But I knew—I knew—I couldn’t keep you. Not without hurting you more in the long run. And that was the last thing I ever wanted to do.

So I let go.

Even as every part of me screamed not to.

You stood there, your arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to hold in the pieces I’d just broken. Your mom had her arms around you, whispering something, probably trying to soothe what I couldn’t. And I just stood there for a second too long, memorizing the way you looked, the way your tears tracked down your cheeks, the way your eyes wouldn’t meet mine.

I got back in my car. My hands were shaking as I started the engine.

I pulled away. Slowly.

Every foot I put between us felt like I was leaving behind a part of me I’d never get back. The silence in the car was deafening, and my chest felt tight, like breathing was something I had to remember to do.

But then I stopped.

Halfway down the street.

I looked back. You were still standing there. Still broken.

I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles went white. I told myself to drive. Just keep going. Don’t make this worse. You made the decision—now live with it.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move.

Because the truth is, I didn’t just leave you. I left the best part of myself standing on that curb.

And I wasn’t sure I’d ever find it again.