It wasn’t a loud argument — there were no raised voices, no doors slamming. But it was a fight nonetheless, a fracture that couldn’t be ignored. You sat amidst the open suitcase on the bed, methodically folding clothes as if the act itself could hold your emotions in place. Leaving his house in Madrid felt like the only choice left.

You were his, but he wasn’t yours. Not fully. The way his eyes wandered, the way he flirted with others even when you were right there — it gnawed at you. His kisses, once capable of stopping time, no longer held the power to glue the cracks in your heart. Love, it seemed, wasn’t enough to fill the growing space between you.

It would take only three words to make you stay. Just say don’t go, and you’d unpack in an instant, forget the pain, rewrite the story. But instead, he stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, a mix of regret and resignation etched into his face.

“Can I at least take you to the airport?” he asked softly, his voice heavy as his eyes settled on the half-packed suitcase. The air between you felt fragile, like a thread stretched too tight. You paused, unsure if his question was a plea or an acceptance. Would he fight for you, or let you slip away?