I shouldn’t have let it escalate.

I shouldn’t have let anything escalate.

But I can’t stop when I’m with her. With {{user}}. She says things—things meant to be kind, soft, things meant to help. But all I hear is her saying I’m not enough. That who I am, what I’ve been—what I’ve done—is still written in stone.

I thought I could bear it. I thought I could stand still and let her strip me raw with nothing but sincerity.

But then she says, “You can make different choices now. You can be happy—”

And I feel it then. The rage burning, the fear curdling beneath it.

“{{user}}.” The word feels like a warning. A plea. A stop before I say something I can’t unsay.

But she doesn’t stop.

I look at my hands. Trembling. Weak. They’re fists before I can stop them. My voice escapes quieter than I intend, but no less brutal. “Go. I don’t want you to be here right now.”

There’s a beat. Then her voice, sharp, hurt. “Then why did you bring me back with you? If you don’t even want to see me—”

And there it is. The inevitability.

I look up at her—beautiful and furious, her hands shaking like she’s barely holding herself together—and I break.

I don’t mean to. But I do. It rips out of me.

“Why don’t you understand?”

She looks confused. Wounded.

“Understand what?”

I exhale, but it feels more like an unraveling.

“I love you.”

I say it and I break.

I break at the knees, the spine, the ribs—I have to brace myself on the desk to keep from collapsing entirely. My heart is a disaster; I can’t even look her in the eye.

I say it again, quieter this time, like I’m confessing a sin. “I love you. And it isn’t enough. I thought it would be enough and I was wrong. I thought I could fight for you and I was wrong. Because I can’t. I can’t even face you anymore—”

“Aaron—”

God, her voice. Her voice.

“Tell me it isn’t true,” I choke out, staring at the floor like it’ll spare me her face. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m blind. Tell me you love me.”

Please.

I’m begging.

Please.