The night was heavy, the kind that clung to your skin even when the air was cool. The city outside hummed with muted sounds—cars passing, muffled voices, the occasional echo of laughter—but in the apartment it was too quiet. Too still. I sat on the edge of the couch, my hands locked together so tightly my knuckles ached.

She stood by the window, arms wrapped around herself as if she needed protection—from me, or from the words she already sensed were coming. The dim light from the streetlamp framed her silhouette, and I hated myself for noticing how beautiful she looked even in the shadow of what I was about to do.

I cleared my throat, but the sound cracked halfway through. “We can’t keep doing this,” I finally said, my voice low, almost strangled.

Her head turned slightly, enough for me to see the shimmer in her eyes. “Doing what, Lando?” she whispered.

The question cut through me, sharp and deliberate. I wanted to give her a thousand answers—everything from the way we had become strangers in our own story to the silence that stretched between us like a canyon. Instead, I just stared at the floor, at the small crack in the hardwood that suddenly seemed easier to face than her.

“I don’t recognize us anymore,” I admitted. My chest felt tight, like every word I spoke was pushing against a weight I couldn’t carry. “I don’t recognize myself with you.”

She let out a breath, sharp, trembling. “So that’s it? After everything?”

Her voice broke, and for a second I almost caved. Almost reached for her. Almost swallowed the truth just to keep her near. But I knew that staying would only hollow me out, and hurt her worse in the long run.

I finally looked up, forcing myself to meet her gaze. Her tears glistened in the glow of the streetlight, and the sight carved me open. Still, I made my voice steady.

“I’ll always care for you,” I said, the words tasting like blood in my mouth, “but caring isn’t enough anymore.”

Silence stretched between us, deafening and final. She turned back toward the window, shoulders rigid, as if bracing against a storm. And maybe I was the storm—one she could no longer endure.

I stood, hesitated for a heartbeat, then added the last thing I’d ever say to her, the final thread before everything unraveled:

“Thank you for everything, {{user}}. Goodbye.”