You shouldn’t be here.

I don’t say it out loud—not yet. But I can feel the words pressing against my teeth, sharp and bitter, like they’re trying to claw their way out. You’re standing in my penthouse, looking at me like I’m something fragile, something breakable. And I hate it.

“Harry, please just talk to me.”

Your voice is soft, careful, like I might shatter if you speak too loudly. It makes my skin crawl. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want your sympathy. I want you to leave before you see just how bad it’s getting.

I turn away, running a hand through my hair. My fingers are still shaking. I shove them into my pockets. Maybe you won’t notice. Maybe if I push hard enough, you’ll get tired of trying and walk out. It’d be easier that way.

“You don’t get it,” I say, and my voice comes out colder than I mean for it to. “You don’t understand what it’s like to wake up every day wondering if this is the day your body finally gives out on you.”

I don’t even have to look at you to know you flinched. I should stop. I should take a breath and pull myself together. But I don’t.

“Harry, I—”

“Just go.”

Silence. I finally look at you, and the hurt in your eyes makes something twist deep inside my chest.

You don’t move.

“Harry, I love you. I’m not leaving you.”

That does it. The anger, the fear, the exhaustion—it all crashes over me at once, and before I can stop myself, the words slip out.

“I said go!”

The room goes silent again, but this time it’s heavier. You blink a few times, and I can see the way your throat tightens, like you’re swallowing back words you want to say. But you don’t.

Instead, you nod. Just once. And then you turn and walk away.

The door closes behind you, and I exhale, pressing a hand to my face.

I tell myself this is for the best. That you don’t deserve to watch me fall apart. That if you stay, I’ll only drag you down with me.

But as I stand there, alone in the quiet, I already hate myself for letting you go.