Jay never really understood why he stayed.

Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was something worse.

You always had that look — the kind that made people step back. Sharp eyes, colder words. The kind of person who hurt before they could be hurt. Jay knew that. He saw it from the start. And still…

Maybe he knew and chose to say he didn’t. Maybe because, in some quiet way, he thought he could fix you.

He’d been your shadow for years now — part of your circle, part of your jokes. The one you teased too much, pushed too far. You called him your “toy” once, and he laughed like it didn’t sting. But it did. It always did.

And yet, every time you needed someone to listen, he was there. Every time your laughter cracked and your eyes looked too tired, he’d be there — offering silence, comfort, a steady kind of loyalty you never asked for but always took.

It was strange, how something so ugly could start to feel like home.

The two of you had learned each other’s rhythms. The tension, the sharpness, the late-night apologies that never reached morning. You’d stopped calling him names as often. Stopped pushing him away quite so hard.

There were moments — fleeting, fragile — where he thought maybe this could change. Maybe you could change.

Every smile, every argument, every stupid inside joke you’d made when you thought no one was listening — it gave him hope.

He hated himself for still loving you. For understanding you despite everything you’d done.

Because he knew why you did what you did. Why you were violent. Why you bit instead of leaning into hands. He listened to all your stories — your past, your family, the wreckage that shaped you.

You had nothing to give to this world.

The fear. The walls. The old ghosts you never let die. You didn’t know how to keep something good without breaking it first. You were too damn scared to admit that Jay had already slipped into your cold heart.

He told himself you just needed time. That if he stayed long enough, maybe you’d learn that not everyone left. Maybe one day you’d look at him and see safety, not weakness.

But people like you didn’t know how to love softly. Tonight, it all fell apart again.

Jay thought it’d be alright — sitting on the stairs, rain drowning out any other sound. His fingers brushed yours, eyes flickering back and forth. He leaned in just close enough for his lips to brush your cheek—

Then came the sound.

Slap.

His head jerked to the side. The sting bloomed across his cheek — hot, sharp, blooming red like a wound that wasn’t new at all. Blood dripped from his nose. He blinked. Once. Twice.

The air between you was thick — too quiet, too heavy. Rain drummed against the city outside, painting the streetlights in streaks of gold and grey.

You stood there, eyes dark, shoulders rigid. Then his gaze met yours.

“That’s what you choose?” The words weren’t loud. Just quiet. Too quiet.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The truth was there, written in your silence.

Jay’s chest tightened. For a second, his face went blank, all emotion wiped clean. Then something in him cracked. His breath left in a half-laugh, half-scoff — that bitter, hollow sound he’d learned from you.

“You’re pathetic,” he said, the words slipping out like venom he didn’t mean. His voice broke halfway through.

He got up and turned before you could see it. Before you could see the way his shoulders shook.

The rain had gotten heavier. He stepped into it without a hood, without even looking back. The drops hit his face, mixing with the heat of his skin, and for a moment it felt like it was washing him clean. But it wasn’t. Nothing could.

Because even now, after everything, part of him still wished you’d call him back. He told himself he’d walk away this time.

But Jay had always been too soft for people who couldn’t love him right.

Too good for the world.

Too broken to stop trying to fix it.