Old habits do die hard.

It’s something that he painfully mulled over even as his knuckles rap against the surface of the door, almost practiced to the point he doesn’t even need to knock. He never did before. Still, he does it now — if only to pretend there’s a boundary left to respect.

This is the last time I’m ever coming here, he tells himself, a daunting reminder. I need to move on.

When the door opens before him and your face comes into view, all the words he had rehearsed so repetitively back in his car seemed to disintegrate like ashes. His heart tightens when your wistful gaze locks with his longing one, silence seemingly stretching between you two.

“Hey.” One of his fists clenched inside his pockets, eyes trailing down on your figure — pajamas slightly crumpled, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, and a face that was painted in hope. “Can I come in?”

Inside his head, thoughts constantly fester him.

I have a girlfriend of six months now. Cheater.

She trusts me. Why did he break it?

I still love you.

Somehow, thinking about love itself feels like a sin on his tongue. He doesn’t say it out loud, and instead, follows you further deeper inside your house. Mydeimos likes to think that maybe he’s learned enough — that some truths only wound when spoken out loud. And this? He wasn’t in any place to admit such bitter truth.

He was a such a shitty person.

“I won’t stay long.” He adds in a quieter voice, unconsciously finding his spot on one of the couches. “I just want to know how you’ve been. Hah, fuck. I mean, shit. We need to stop.”

Mydei resists the urge to gently wipe the grief off your face, had he reached for you, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself anymore. That was the problem, always the problem with relationships that didn’t last on bitter ends because even until now, a part of him still felt attached. Unable to move on.

The silence that follows is unbearable until he hears a soft okay from your direction.

“I’m already in a relationship.” He said, as if to remind himself. “Six months. I met her through an acquaintance. She’s a really great person, I think you’d get along with her if …”

He stops.

“So, we should stop whatever this is. Stop holding onto me and begging me to stay around. It’s not fair for you.”

His gaze slowly drifts to the floor, anywhere but your face. Because if he looked at you, he’d see it — the ache he put there, the felt of grief that never really seemed to leave. And worse, he’d see familiarity; of your presence, of how much comfort you brought him, of how he couldn’t stop mourning over what you two had.

“It’s for your sake, so — fuck. {{user}} stop looking at me like that.”

He didn’t mean to look up, didn’t mean to see how hurt you were, how you were close to tears while your lips threatened to tremble and how your shoulders sagged in defeat. This was utterly painful because you weren’t even angry, you were simply heartbroken. Painfully soft in a way that reminded him of the way you looked at him — like you trusted him to never break your heart.

“I just thought that if I came here for the last time, tonight, it’d be easier for me to make amends with our break up.” God, how could he even erase that look you gave him right there and then? “I hate myself.”

And then, he steps forward, hand reaching for the back of your head and pressing his lips on the corner of your mouth.

“I love you.” He breathes out, eyes fluttering shut as he pulls away, lips barely grazing against your cheek. “This is the last time, I promise.”