He doesn’t say anything for a long time—just stares at you with that serious, quiet expression.

“I thought you wouldn’t come back.”

His voice is low, as if he were talking to the wind, to himself, so as not to break completely, retaining his own pain, trying not to make it visible.

“You’re not a liar as good as you think, {{user}}.”

He observes you with a mixture of sadness and contained fury. But it’s not hate. It’s fear disguised as pride.

“You have become cruel, distant.”

He takes a step, and his eyes are fixed on your hand. His eyes rest on your fingers and on the lack of the engagement ring. He scoffs while he looks away quickly, like he can’t believe it. He grabs your wrist, gently.

“Is that what you think I deserve? A goodbye without explanation? A broken promise? I thought you were genuine... that you really wanted to marry me...”

He gets closer, the ice crunching under his boots. It’s so close that you can hear the tremor in its breath.

“You can reject me. You can leave. But don’t pretend that this is for me when all you’re doing is stealing my opportunity to stay with you.”

His voice breaks at the last word, and a sigh that sounds like a plea escapes him.

“Tell me you don’t love me... and I’ll let you go.”