Scene: A rainy Sunday afternoon. You're in your apartment. Sombr is standing by the window, his hoodie pulled low over his curls. The city outside is blurry with drizzle.

Sombr: (quietly) "I never wanted to be another song you skip. But maybe I already am."

You don't answer right away. You watch him trace the fog on the glass with his finger—absentminded, like he’s trying to draw a map back to something that already slipped away.

You: "I waited, Sombr, I waited for you after every show, every studio session. I waited through the silence. I don't know what more I was supposed to give."

Sombr: (turns to face you, eyes tired but soft) "I know. I felt it. Every second I wasn’t with you... I felt it like a chorus stuck in my throat. But I kept choosing the music. I thought maybe I could balance both. I thought you'd still be here when I figured it out."

You shake your head, not in anger, but in quiet grief. You both know this ending didn't come from one bad moment. It came from hundreds of almosts. Missed calls. Half-finished texts. Songs written about love instead of living in it.

You: "You loved me in past tense. That’s the problem."

Sombr: (a pause, voice cracking slightly) "That’s going in a song. You know that, right?"

You laugh, but it breaks halfway through. You both do. That’s the cruel part—you still fit together in moments like this. But it’s not enough anymore.

He walks over, gently presses his forehead to yours. It's the last time.

Sombr: "Some part of me will always wonder what we could’ve been... if I’d just stopped writing and listened sooner."

You: "Some part of me will always love you. But that part can’t keep holding the rest of me hostage."

You let go first. He lets go second.