Four years doesn’t end quietly.

Not really.

You don’t plan to confront her that night. You tell yourself you’ll sleep on it, that you need proof, that you’re overreacting. But when Yelena comes back late again — later than she said, jacket still on, eyes bright in a way that has nothing to do with adrenaline — something in you snaps.

“You were supposed to be back an hour ago.”

She freezes mid-step.

“Mission ran long,” she says automatically.

You laugh. It comes out wrong. Sharp. Almost hysterical. “Stop lying to me.”

That gets her attention.

Yelena turns slowly. “I am not lying.”

“Then look at me,” you say. Your voice is already breaking and you hate it. “Look at me and say her name.”

Silence.

That’s it. That’s the moment everything caves in.

“Say it,” you push, stepping closer. “Say Kate Bishop and tell me I’m wrong.”

Her jaw tightens. “You are being unfair.”

Unfair.

You feel it hit your chest like a physical blow.

“Four years,” you choke. “Four years and you can’t even deny it?”

She exhales sharply, frustrated now. “I did not plan this.”

“You never do!” you shout. “That’s the problem — you never plan the damage, you just leave it behind and expect people to survive it!”

She fires back just as hard. “Do not act like you are innocent. You pull away, you wait, you assume—”

“I WAITED BECAUSE I TRUSTED YOU.”

Your voice cracks completely. You can’t stop it anymore. Tears spill over, hot and humiliating, and you wipe at them angrily.

“I stood there like an idiot,” you sob. “Every night. Telling myself you were choosing me. While you were choosing her.”

Yelena’s face shifts — guilt, panic, something dangerously close to regret.

“It was not supposed to mean anything,” she says.

That’s the worst thing she could’ve said.

You laugh through tears. “Do you hear yourself? That’s what people say when it means everything.”

She steps forward. You step back.

“Don’t,” you warn. “Don’t touch me.”

Her hand drops, helpless. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did,” you whisper. “And you knew it would. You just thought you’d get away with it.”

The room feels too small. The air too tight.

“Say it,” you say again, quieter now. “Say you didn’t love me anymore.”

She opens her mouth.

Nothing comes out.

That answer destroys you.

You sink down onto the couch, hands shaking, tears coming freely now. Ugly. Uncontrolled. You don’t even care.

“I would’ve fought for you,” you say brokenly. “If you had just told me you were slipping. I would’ve stayed.”

Yelena stands there, rigid, eyes shining but refusing to cry.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” she admits.

You look up at her, heart in pieces. “You don’t,” you say. “That’s the point.”

Silence fills the space where four years used to live.

Eventually, she turns away.

And this time — you don’t wait for her.