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For weeks, it was the same pattern.

You’d hear the door late at night—sometimes past midnight—boots hitting the floor, keys tossed somewhere careless. Yelena would move through the apartment like she didn’t want to wake you, jacket still on, hair smelling like cold air and gun oil.

“Mission ran late,” she’d say.

Every time.

At first, you believed it. You wanted to. Her job wasn’t clean or predictable, and you knew that better than most. But weeks passed, and late turned into later. Texts stopped coming. Updates became shorter. Her eyes stopped meeting yours when she walked in.

You started waiting up.

Sitting on the couch, lights dim, heart tight in your chest as the clock crept forward. Every sound in the hallway made you sit up straighter. Every time she finally came through the door, relief tangled with something sharper—hurt, suspicion, exhaustion.

“You didn’t text,” you said one night, trying to keep your voice calm.

She sighed, already tired. “I was busy.”

“Busy for twelve hours?”

That was the first argument.

They piled up after that. Small things at first—missed dinners, canceled plans, the way she flinched when you asked where she’d been. You hated yourself for asking. Hated the way your voice shook, hated that you sounded like someone you never wanted to be.

“You don’t trust me,” she snapped once, arms crossed defensively.

“I’m trying to understand,” you said back, but your throat burned when you said it.

She stopped telling you details. Then she stopped explaining altogether.

The distance between you became physical. She slept closer to the edge of the bed. Her touch became brief, distracted. Kisses were quick, like obligations instead of comfort.

And then one evening, she came home early.

Too early.

She didn’t take her jacket off. Didn’t toss her boots aside. She just stood there, hands clasped together, jaw tight in a way that made your stomach drop instantly.

“We need to talk,” she said.

Your chest clenched. You already knew.

She didn’t look angry. That was worse. She looked tired. Worn down. Like she’d already cried somewhere else and had nothing left.

“I think… we should take a break,” Yelena said quietly.

The words landed wrong, like they didn’t belong together. A break. Temporary. Gentle. Clean.

But the way she said it felt final.

“A break?” you echoed, barely recognizing your own voice.

She nodded once, eyes finally meeting yours. “I am not good partner right now. I am angry all the time. I disappear. I hurt you.” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “And I don’t know how to fix it.”

Your chest felt hollow, like something had been ripped out too fast.

“So… that’s it?” you asked. “You just—leave?”

“It’s not leaving,” she said quickly, stepping closer, then stopping herself. “It’s space. For both of us.”

You laughed weakly, the sound breaking halfway through. “It doesn’t feel like space. It feels like you’re giving up.”

Her jaw tightened. “I am trying not to destroy this.”

That was the moment you broke.

Tears welled up before you could stop them, your breath hitching as weeks of swallowed fear and doubt crashed into you all at once. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you every night?” you whispered. “How many times I defended you in my head? How many times I told myself I was crazy for feeling like this?”

Yelena’s face softened, pain flashing across it—but she didn’t reach for you.

And that hurt more than anything else.

“I love you,” she said quietly. “That is the problem.”

Your hands trembled as you wiped at your face, but the tears kept coming. You felt stupid. Small. Like the ground under you had quietly disappeared.

“I don’t want a break,” you said, voice shaking. “I want you.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing through something heavy inside her. When she opened them again, they were wet too.

“I know,” she whispered. “And I am so sorry.”

She left shortly after that.

The door clicked shut softly, like she didn’t want to hurt you any more than she already had. You stood there long after, staring at the empty space she’d filled for so long.