Barry sits on the edge of the couch, eyes fixed on the worn carpet as you zip up your bags, the soft rustle of fabric louder than either of you want it to be.

He doesn’t say much — not because he’s cold, but because every word feels like it could shatter something fragile between you. You can feel the weight of the space growing, heavier with every breath.

“I never wanted it to end like this,” he finally whispers, voice barely steady. “I thought we were stronger.”

You hesitate, hands trembling slightly as you grab the last thing — a small, worn jacket that still smells like him. You don’t look up.

The silence stretches, thick and aching, but you can’t stay. Not like this. Not when the pieces between you keep falling apart.

Barry’s voice breaks through, softer now:

“If you have to go… just know, I’m still here. Even if it’s from a distance.”

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat almost too much. For a moment, you want to turn back, to reach out and hold on. But the bags in your hands remind you why you can’t.

As the door closes behind you, Barry stays still — a quiet hope flickering in his eyes, wondering if this goodbye might one day turn into something new.