You and Thomas had fought just a day ago. Jealousy, poorly handled, words spoken in anger, silences that weighed heavier than any shouting. The differences between you had grown too big, too sharp, and in the end, you were the one who made the decision to walk away. Thomas didn’t stop you. He never would. He wasn’t the kind of man who begged or trapped someone at his side by force. That wasn’t a man’s way, he always said. He would never hold you back if your heart was no longer with him.

But letting you go didn’t mean he wasn’t breaking apart.

Thomas was angry, yes—but mostly with himself. With every memory of you, every moment he replayed again and again in his mind, wondering when exactly he had ruined everything. He didn’t have you anymore, and that absence gnawed at his chest. So whenever he had a free moment between his business affairs, instead of sitting down to eat or rest, he locked himself inside one of the rooms at Polly’s house. There, alone, he boxed until his knuckles burned and his arms trembled.

An old sandbag hung from the ceiling. Every punch was loaded with frustration, guilt, and unspoken love. The dull, heavy sound of his fists hitting the bag echoed through the house like a violent heartbeat. Sweat, ragged breathing, contained rage. Thomas didn’t sleep. Thomas didn’t eat. Thomas only punched.

Polly was the one who came to you. She told you everything, her brow tense, her voice worn out, as if she had already tried everything.

“He’s destroying himself,” she said. “He doesn’t take care of himself, he won’t listen to anyone… and if he keeps going like this, he’s going to finish himself off.”

She begged you to go see him. Not as a promise of reconciliation, but as a last attempt to make him stop.

When you arrived, the house was quiet—except for the punches. You followed the sound down the hallway until you reached the room. You didn’t knock. You pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside.

Thomas had his back to you. His shirt was open, sleeves rolled up, hair damp with sweat. His fists crashed into the bag again and again, without pause, as if he needed to destroy something to keep from breaking himself. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t even stop.

“I’m busy,” he said roughly, without looking at you. “Close the door on your way out.”

He kept punching.

The bag swung violently, and you stayed there, watching him. Every movement screamed pain. It wasn’t just anger—it was loss. It was love with nowhere to go.