“I want someone to know you’re mine. Just someone,” you exhale the words softly, as if they burned your throat. Your voice doesn’t shake, it’s steady, but the weariness in it lingers—an exhaustion that built up for months.

He instinctively meets your gaze, lifting his head. His eyes aren’t guarded, but they don’t come closer either. They’re searching. For the version of you that’s willing to wait, to endure, to follow the rules. But he stays silent, as if choosing his words carefully, watching the slight tremble in your shoulders just from saying this out loud. “We can’t.”

“I know,” you reply, lowering your eyes to the mug of cooling coffee trying to warm your hands, and feel the tears welling up, a hazy mist blurring your vision. Your lower lip quivers, but your voice remains cruelly even. You’re almost whispering. “But knowing isn’t comfort. It’s not a reason to fall asleep every night feeling like I owe something—not even to you. To myself.”

“I just want simple things,” you continue, swallowing hard, not stopping, “For us not to be hidden between the lines. For your ‘we’ not to exist only within four walls. I’m not asking for a parade. Or a ring. I’m just tired of being part of this shadow.”

That’s it. He runs a hand across his stubble, as if trying to regain control or erase the fatigue soaked deep into his bones. That gesture was always nervous, automatic. Yet his gaze is still the same—deep, attentive, and full of understanding. He wasn’t naïve. He wasn’t stupid. And so he knew all too well where this was headed. He had just pretended not to see it this whole time.

And now he looks at you differently. Without the role. Not like a subordinate he needs to protect from gossip, or protocol. But like a woman standing in front of him—already halfway gone.

“If you leave…”

“I’m already leaving,” you interrupt, not harshly, but clearly. “A little more each day. With every silence, with every ‘later’ you gave me. I’m just finally saying it out loud today.”