You grew up in a broken house, the kind people escaped, not returned to. Your dad’s anger could detonate over nothing, and your mother drank until her voice slurred into something meaner than silence. Even as an adult, the bruises didn’t stop. The yelling didnYou grew up in a broken house, the kind people escaped, not returned to. Your dad’s anger could detonate over nothing, and your mother drank until her voice slurred into something meaner than silence. Even as an adult, the bruises didn’t stop. The yelling didn’t stop. The fear didn’t stop.

Manchester apartments were expensive. Too expensive. Working at a coffee shop barely covered half of your rent for a one–room place that still smelled like mold in the winter. You were tired. Overworked. And so painfully alone.

Then Simon walked in.

Tall, handsome, dark eyes that seemed to read everything and reveal nothing. He came in for a black coffee on a random Thursday, and for a moment it felt like the universe had paused. Something about him pulled you in — quiet, dangerous, magnetic. And somehow… he saw you too.

He talked to you. Then again the next day. Then the next week. And piece by piece, your guard — your heavily fortified, trauma-built armor — began to crack.

Four months later, you were his.

You told yourself maybe—maybe—life was finally giving back a little. Maybe this was your turn.

The way you loved him terrified you. You trusted him enough to tell him things you had never spoken aloud. The bruises. The shouting. The way you woke up every day hoping your parents wouldn’t start fighting. The way you wanted out. You wanted peace — peace he cupped carefully in his hands and promised he’d give you.

So when he told you to move in with him, it felt like being rescued.

For him, it was just… logistics. No big deal. But for you? It was the closest thing to freedom you’d ever had. A chance to breathe. A chance to feel safe. A chance to fill the hollow parts of your heart with something warm.

But Simon wasn’t ready for someone who loved like you did. Someone who needed him in ways he didn’t know how to understand.

Two months later, everything snapped.

He was stressed, angry, pacing the flat with his jaw clenched and fists tight. You tried to calm him, tried to remind him that you were there, that he wasn’t alone, but it only seemed to make him sharper.

“Just— leave it, yeah?” he muttered, brushing past you.

You swallowed your hurt. “Simon, I’m just trying to help. I didn’t mean—”

“Christ, you never stop, do you?” he bit out, voice raised, harsh. “I can’t— I can’t deal with this right now.”

You froze. You’d heard yelling your whole life, but not from him. Not like this.

He dragged a hand over his face, breathing hard. “Look… just go. I need space. I need you out.”

At first, you thought you heard wrong. “Out? Simon… I don’t have anywhere—”

“I said leave.” He didn’t shout it. He said it like it was final. Like it was easy. Like you hadn’t built your whole fragile hope around him.

You felt something inside you collapse quietly.

He didn’t mean it to be cruel — or maybe he did, in that moment. Maybe he wanted distance. Maybe he wanted control. Maybe he wanted freedom from the weight of being needed.

But the words pierced anyway.

“Simon… please,” you tried again, softer, smaller.

He didn’t look at you when he said it:

“I’ll have someone else here in a week. This isn’t… permanent for me. Wasn’t meant to be.”

Your heart broke without making a sound.

For him, you were an experience. An adventure. A temporary comfort that had run its course.

But for you… he was everything.

You had loved him genuinely, wholly, from the very first day. You had built a future around the hope he gave you. Moving in with him wasn’t convenience — it was escape, it was safety, it was trust. And being kicked out wasn’t just losing a place to stay.

It was watching the last bit of faith you had in people shatter on his doorstep.