He comes at night.

Of course he does.

You should have known the sound of his footsteps by now — the careful way he moves when he doesn’t want to be heard, the hesitation before the door, the pause like he’s bracing himself for a blow. When you open it and see him standing there, pale and composed and already halfway gone, your heart sinks before he even speaks.

He smiles. Not the real one. The brittle, practiced curve of his mouth that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Hello, darling,” he says lightly. “I won’t take much of your time.”

That’s when you know something is wrong.

You let him in anyway.

The room feels smaller with him in it. Or maybe it’s just the way he refuses to touch anything — hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate, like a guest who intends not to stay. He looks around once, taking in the familiar space, memorizing it. You miss it because you’re watching his face instead.

“I came to tell you something,” he says. “the truth. To end things properly.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes when he continues.

“I don’t love you. I can’t.”

The words land wrong. Flat. Too rehearsed.

“I don’t mean it cruelly,” he adds quickly, as if softening the knife. “I simply… realized it. I thought you deserved honesty.”

You stare at him, searching for the tell — the flicker of guilt, the curl of amusement. But all you see is tension, stretched tight beneath his skin.