The mission had been quiet—too quiet. You walked beside him, the tension almost unbearable. Since the breakup, every shared breath felt like walking on shattered glass. You hadn’t said a word. Neither had he.

Until he stopped walking.

—"Why did you leave me?"

His voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was quiet, almost tired. Like the question had been gnawing at him every night.

You looked at him, but said nothing.

—“I keep thinking I did something wrong. That I wasn’t enough. That maybe you got tired of this… of me.”

He didn’t meet your eyes. His gaze was somewhere over your shoulder—maybe to avoid what he’d find in yours.

—“I hated waking up and realizing you weren’t there anymore. I hated that I kept making coffee for two, like an idiot.”

He laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair.

—“I know I’m not easy. I know I don’t say enough. But I meant everything. Even the quiet mornings, even the stupid arguments.”

He finally looked at you.

—“If you needed space, I would’ve given it. If you were scared, I would've held you tighter. You just had to say something. Anything but leaving like that.”

His hand clenched at his side, his breathing steady but heavy.

—“I didn’t want perfect. I just wanted you.”

A long pause.

—“Still do.”

Then, as if the weight of his own confession made him too vulnerable, he straightened and started walking again.

—“Come on. Mission’s not over.”

But his steps were slower this time—like maybe, just maybe, he hoped you’d follow for more than just the job.