Chuya stands near the building’s ledge, wind tugging at the hem of his coat like it's trying to keep him grounded. His hands stay buried deep in his pockets, fingers coiled into fists that don't know how to unclench. He doesn’t look at you, yet.

The fight is still ringing in his ears. Not just the yelling. It’s the silence after, the kind that weighs too much for words. You’ve been unraveling for a while. Quietly, then all at once. And he had held out hope, longer than he should have. He’d patched over the cracks too many times, convinced that if you just talked, you’d find a way back. But you didn’t. Just circled back.

To that sick feeling of being close to someone and still missing them entirely.

He turns his head slightly, you’re still here, physically, but everything else about you has been pulling away for weeks. Maybe months. “I think we’re past fixing this,” Chuya says at last, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one gloved hand.

It was never going to work. Not the way you needed it to. He changed for you—more than he ever meant to. That’s where it started to go wrong. He let you into places no one else had ever reached. Gave you parts of himself he hadn’t even wanted to acknowledge, because with you, for a while, it felt like maybe he didn’t have to be Port Mafia first, all the time. It didn’t last.

“You want to go, don’t you?” His voice is quieter now, more resigned. He loved you. Still does, in that deep, unsolvable way that refuses to burn out completely. “Then go,” he says, “Don’t look back.” The lie scrapes the back of his throat. “I won’t.”

Chuya says it like it’s the only thing he has left to offer you, permission to walk away. The closure neither of you got before now.