It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

You and Rafe were never perfect, but what you had was real. The late-night drives with his hand on your thigh, the whispered “stay” when you tried to leave, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. You knew he was reckless, a storm trapped in a beautiful boy, but you never cared. You loved him anyway.

And for a while, he let you.

But then, something changed.

It was subtle at first—the missed calls, the way he turned his head when you reached for him. His words got sharper, his temper shorter. You told yourself it was stress, that he’d come back to you when he was ready. But then the fights started, and suddenly, it wasn’t just distance—it was destruction.

“You don’t get it,” he snapped one night, shoving a hand through his hair. His voice was cold, but his eyes were burning. “I’m not good for you. I never was.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” you fired back, hating the way your voice cracked.

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I already did.”

And just like that, he was gone.

But you weren’t ready to say goodbye.

You showed up at his house one last time, heart pounding as you knocked. He opened the door, and for a second, he looked like your Rafe again—the one who used to trace patterns on your skin and tell you he never wanted anyone else. But then his expression hardened.

“You need to stop coming here.” His voice was quiet, but it cut deeper than any shout.

Tears burned at the back of your eyes. “Rafe, please—”

“I mean it,” he interrupted. “We’re done.”

You wanted to scream, to shake him and make him admit that he didn’t mean it. But you could see it in his face—this was his choice. He was pushing you away to protect you, even if it killed him in the process.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because despite everything, you still weren’t ready to let go.