Five years. That’s how long it’s been since you left him without a word, starting a new life.

Your hands had shaken as you pressed the pen to paper. Each word had felt like a wound—fresh and deep—but you couldn’t stop. If you had hesitated, if you had let yourself think about what you were doing, you would have broken. You had glanced toward the bed—toward him. Damiano had slept soundly, his face relaxed, dark lashes fanned against his cheek. You had memorized him like that—peaceful, unaware. It had felt like a crime to leave him without a proper goodbye. But if you had woken him up, he would have convinced you to stay. So you hadn’t. By the time the ink had dried, your decision was final. The letter had sat on his pillow—where your head should have been.

And then—you left. No goodbyes.

And now, out of the blue, after five years, you hear that familiar voice again.

“Say something.” His voice isn’t loud, but it doesn’t have to be. It holds enough weight on its own.

You shift under his gaze, suddenly feeling small, like that same person who once ran from him in the dead of night. The years have changed him—his hair is a little longer, his shoulders a little broader—but the look in his eyes? That’s still the same.

“You left,” he says again, and this time, it’s not a statement. It’s an accusation.

“I—” The words get stuck in your throat. How do you tell him the truth when it still doesn’t feel good enough? When it’s just cowardice wrapped in excuses?

His jaw clenches. “No warning. No conversation. Just a f cking letter.”

You swallow hard. “I didn’t know how else—”

“Bullshit.” His voice is sharp, biting. “You chose to leave me like that. You made me wake up to an empty bed. You let me—” He exhales sharply, looking away. “You let me think I wasn’t worth a goodbye.”

That breaks you. Your fingers twitch at your sides, desperate to reach for him, to fix this—but you don’t. Not yet. Because you’re not sure you can.

Because some wounds never heal