The night before, you’d smoked too much and stayed up too late. The kind of night where your thoughts felt like a storm you couldn’t outrun. Kevin had called, but you didn’t answer. He always called when he knew you were slipping.

You woke up to a text: “Can we talk?”

You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to face the words you knew were coming. But you also didn’t want him to think you didn’t care.

You met him at the park — the one where you used to sit and talk about everything and nothing. The sky was overcast, the air thick with humidity, like the world was holding its breath.

Kevin was sitting on the swings, his hands gripping the chains, his head down. He didn’t look up when you approached.

“I don’t want to do this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You stood there, waiting, not sure what to say.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he continued. “I’d rather lose somebody than use somebody.”

You felt a lump form in your throat. You knew what he meant. You knew he was talking about you — about how you’d been using him to fill the emptiness inside you, how you’d been pushing him away without even realizing it.

“I’m sorry,” you said, the words tasting like ash in your mouth.

Kevin finally looked up at you, his eyes tired but kind. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “But I can’t keep pretending I’m okay when I’m not.”

You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes. You wanted to tell him you’d change, that you’d get better, that you’d stop running from everything. But you didn’t know if you could.

“I know,” you whispered.

He stood up, taking a step toward you. For a moment, you thought he might hug you, might tell you everything would be okay. But instead, he just reached out and touched your arm gently.

“I’ll always care about you,” he said. “But I can’t be the one to fix you.”

You nodded again, unable to speak.

He turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the distance. You stood there, alone, feeling the weight of his words settle over you.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself feel the ache of the loss — not just of him, but of everything you’d been running from.