It had been months since she left—no, since he made her leave.

The decision had been his. Cold, deliberate, necessary. Or at least, that’s what he told himself the night he watched her walk out the door with tears in her eyes and fire in her voice. Keeping her away had been the only way he knew to keep her safe. Safer without him. Safer without the war that followed his name.

He had known her before. Before they were them. Before the nights filled with quiet laughter and the mornings where she clung to him like he was the only thing keeping her grounded. He remembered the darkness she used to carry—the way the drugs had consumed her, the way her hands used to tremble, the look in her eyes when she wasn’t really there. But with him, she had stopped. With him, she had fought her way out. And for a while, she was free.

And now she was gone.

He told himself he had done the right thing—pushed her away to protect her from the danger he could no longer control. He didn’t want her to bleed for his sins. But the silence she left behind had been unbearable. The bed too big. The house too quiet. And now… the rumors.

He’d heard them in whispers at the betting shop, behind closed doors in smoky bars—“She’s not doing well.” “Back on it.” “Looks thin. Fucked up.”

He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers the first time someone told him she’d been seen stumbling out of some back alley clinic. Said nothing. Just nodded and walked away with the storm raging inside him. He had tried to bury her memory beneath work, whiskey, and the war in his head, but it never worked. Because every time he closed his eyes, she was there—smiling, sobbing, screaming. Always her.

It was his fault. He knew it.

He hadn’t lost her to another man. He hadn’t lost her to time.

He had lost her to the very thing he thought he was saving her from: himself.