Haunted.

He stands at the door, suitcase gripped tightly, the rain drumming a slow, steady rhythm against the glass. You didn't speak, didn't cry, didn't ask him to stay. You only looked at him.

And it’s that look; the unwavering affection in your eyes—that will follow him long after he steps away.

Once, he had craved that gaze, had drawn strength from it like sunlight. Now, it unsettles him. It should have shattered beneath the weight of his leaving, should have turned cold, or bitter, or anything but this, this love, untouched by his betrayal.

His lips twitch into the familiar smile he’s always worn so effortlessly, but it falters, twists into something else— a smirk, something to shield himself from the ache pressing against his ribs.

Every lesson they built together, once meant to guide them, now feel like knives pointing at your deepest wounds. Every promise, every whispered dream, every moment of softness—now turned against you, hollow and cruel.

And still, you look at him the same way.

He exhales, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, with a quiet, almost regretful smile, he murmurs, "You should’ve hated me."