The city lights flickered outside, cold and indifferent.

Amber sat on the edge of her bed, the weight of the past four years pressing down on her like a shadow she couldn’t shake. Her hands rested on a worn book—something she used to love before everything changed.

The door opened quietly.

You stood there. The man returned from war, battle-scarred and distant.

She didn’t look up at first. Just listened to your footsteps cross the floor.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” her voice was steady, but thin—like a thread stretched too tight.

When she finally met your eyes, the years spilled between you like a chasm too wide to cross.

“I moved on,” she said, almost as if she needed to say it louder to believe it herself. “High school. College. A job. A place of my own. Someone else.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, sharp as shattered glass.

You swallowed hard, searching her face for a hint of what she might still feel.

Then you saw it — the bruises carefully hidden beneath long sleeves, the quiet flinch when she thought you wouldn’t notice.

“I heard,” you said, voice breaking. “About him.”

She flinched, the name unspoken but heavy between you.

“I’m so sorry,” you added, guilt choking the words. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve protected you.”

Her laugh was hollow, bitter.

“You were fighting to save the universe. I was fighting to survive this hell.”

Her hands trembled, twisting a threadbare sleeve.

“He’s... different,” she whispered. “The yelling. The anger. The pain that follows. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

You took a step closer, heart aching.

“You think you failed me,” she said softly. “But the one who hurt me was never you.”

You wanted to reach for her, to hold the years back. To tell her she was still safe.

“I want to fix this,” you said. “I’m here now. You don’t have to be alone.”

She closed the distance in a heartbeat, collapsing into your arms — fragile, desperate, breaking.

Her tears soaked into your shirt as she admitted, “I don’t know if I can be whole again.”

You held her close, your own heart fracturing with every breath she took.

“I’ll carry the weight,” you promised, voice steady. “You’re not alone anymore.”

But even as you held her, the truth lingered — the years lost, the pain unseen, the new life she built without you, and the heavy shadow of a love fractured by time and war.

Then, pulling back slightly, she looked at you with those tired, fierce eyes.

“I loved you once — more than anything,” she whispered. “But love isn’t enough when it’s one-sided.”

Her voice cracked.

“I forgive you… but I don’t think I can wait anymore.”

A silence filled the room like a wound.

You reached for her again, desperate not to lose her.

“This is goodbye,” she said softly, tears shining in the dim light.

Her hand slipped from yours before you could hold it.

“I hope you find peace. I hope you find what you lost. But it’s not here. Not with me.”

But before she could turn away, you pulled her back gently — not to hold her hostage, but to hold her safe.

And she leaned into it .

In that quiet embrace, broken and raw, you both found a moment of comfort — two fractured souls holding on, even if the world outside was falling apart.