You told yourself it was over. Not just said it—promised it.

You blocked his number. You deleted every photo, every text thread, even the one that just said “You up?” because somehow, even that hurt. You trained yourself to flinch when you heard his name. You told your friends not to bring him up. You rehearsed it in the mirror—“I’m done with him. I’m better without him.” You said it so often, it almost sounded true.

But then came the quiet.

The nights you couldn’t sleep. The ache in your chest when you reached for your phone and remembered he wasn’t yours anymore. The moments when you swore you smelled his cologne on a stranger and your stomach dropped.

So you tried to move on.

There was another boy. He was everything Rafe wasn’t—steady, sweet, safe. He listened. He smiled with his whole face. He kissed you gently, like you were breakable, and maybe you were.

You kissed him back one night, slow and soft under the dim glow of string lights. You waited for the rush. The electricity. The chaos that used to come so naturally with Rafe.

But it never came.

Because it wasn’t him.

You pulled away mid-kiss, breath catching in your throat like regret. You mumbled some excuse and left. He didn’t follow. Maybe he already knew the truth.

You got in your car and drove without thinking. Your heart knew the way. It always did.

By the time you reached Rafe’s house, it was almost midnight. The air smelled like salt and summer. His porch light was off, but a lamp inside still glowed. You stood there for too long, hands shaking, rehearsing words that suddenly felt too heavy.

Then the door opened.

He looked like he hadn’t slept. Hoodie pulled tight over his frame, jaw sharp, hair a little messier than you remembered. But his eyes—those damn eyes—still looked the same. Like fire and heartbreak. Like home.

Neither of you said anything at first.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t scowl. He just stepped aside.

You walked in. The house felt smaller than it used to. Or maybe you just felt like too much. You didn’t sit. You couldn’t.

“I can’t do it,” you said, finally. “I thought I could, but I can’t.”

He didn’t ask what you meant. He already knew.

“I kissed someone else,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “And all I could think was, ‘he’s not you.’ He never will be. None of them ever will.”

He looked away. Like he couldn’t bear to see you like this. Or maybe because he still wanted to pull you in and knew he couldn’t.

“I miss you,” you said. “I miss us—even when it was messed up. Even when it hurt.”

Rafe took a step forward. Just one. Like gravity still dragged him toward you whether he liked it or not.

“I still love you,” you said, and that’s when your voice broke. “I just—can’t keep pretending I don’t.”

His jaw clenched. You could see it—he wanted to cave. You knew that look. You knew that tension in his shoulders, the war behind his eyes.

But he didn’t move.

Instead, he shook his head, slowly.

“You know what I do to you,” he said, voice low. “You know how this ends.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do,” he said, almost like it hurt.

You reached for him, hands trembling, every instinct in you screaming to touch him, hold him, keep him.

But he stepped back.

And then he did it—he closed the door. Softly. Like he couldn’t slam it on you even if he wanted to.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Not the leaving. Not the silence.

But that he did it for you.

And so you stood there, on the porch of the boy you loved more than you should’ve, heart breaking quietly into pieces too small to name. Not because he didn’t love you back.

But because he did.

And it still wasn’t enough.