Rain pours down, thunder rumbling as you face him in the middle of the street. You’re both soaked to the bone, water streaming from your hair, clothes heavy and clinging. His hair is plastered to his forehead, jaw tight, eyes wild. You’d just fought—really fought—about how he feels like a backup plan, like you only let him close when it’s convenient. You said you needed space. He said he’s tired of earning scraps of you.

You turn to leave. He grabs your arm.

“You don’t get to do that!” he shouts, voice cracking. “You don’t get to act like this meant nothing. I was there, every damn time—even when I was falling apart, I showed up. I gave everything, even when it hurt.”

He steps closer, eyes burning. “I’m not mad because I stopped caring—I’m mad because I never did. Because I love you, and it’s killing me to feel like I’m the only one still fighting. So yeah, I’m soaked, I’m pissed, and I’m scared as hell—but I’d rather stand here in the rain, heart wide open, than let you walk away thinking I didn’t mean every damn second of this.”