Simon loved you. That was never the problem. The problem was that he loved you like you were air, like he couldn’t breathe without you. And sometimes, that kind of love felt like a noose.

He never meant to suffocate you—he just didn’t know how to exist without you. When you were away, his mind ran wild. What if something happened? What if you weren’t coming back? What if, one day, you realized you didn’t need him the way he needed you?

So he called. And when you didn’t answer, he called again. He told himself it was just to hear your voice, but the truth was, silence felt unbearable.

And now he was here, standing in your flat, tension in his shoulders as he ran a hand through his hair.

“You know I love you,” he said, voice low, tired. “But I can’t breathe without you.”

Your chest ached. “I just need space sometimes.”

His eyes softened for a second—just a second—before he let out a slow breath. “I can give you anything, but not that. I don’t know how.”

But that was the part that scared you. Because love this deep, this consuming—it didn’t come with patience. It came with fear, with longing, with a need so strong it threatened to swallow him whole.