My head is pounding, my throat is dry, and my chest feels heavier than it ever has before. I don’t even remember half of last night—just flashes of music too loud, drinks I shouldn’t have taken, and a moment of weakness I can’t erase.

When I open the door to our apartment, it hits me. The smell of her perfume still lingers in the air, her shoes by the entrance, the framed photo of us laughing on the table. This is our home. The place we built together. And I’ve just broken it.

I can barely look at my reflection in the hallway mirror. My hair’s a mess, my eyes bloodshot, but that’s not what disgusts me. It’s the memory of what I did. The truth that I let go of everything that mattered for something that meant nothing.

She’s in the kitchen, humming quietly while making coffee. So normal. So innocent. My stomach twists. She turns when she hears me, her smile soft, unaware of the storm inside me.

“Rough night?” she asks gently, tilting her head.

Her kindness shatters me. How do I stand here, pretending, when I know the truth? I want to rip time apart and undo it, but I can’t. The guilt is suffocating.

I sink into a chair, burying my face in my hands. My voice cracks when I finally speak, and every word feels like glass in my throat.

“I messed up,” I whisper, eyes burning. “And I don’t even deserve to stand here and look at you after what I’ve done.”