“Then don’t fucking leave me.”
I don’t yell.
I don’t raise my voice.
I just say it like a man standing on the edge of something he’s not sure he’ll survive.
“Please,” I whisper, and I hate how that sounds coming from me. But I mean it.
God, I fucking mean it.
But all she does is press her lips to my forehead and close her eyes like she’s praying. And I know what that means. I know a farewell when I feel it in my skin.
I rise slowly.
Like my body doesn’t want to obey.
Like walking away from her might tear me in two.
She looks so small now.
So soft.
So fucking brave it makes me want to scream.
She opens her mouth but I shake my head.
“Don’t,” I breathe. “If you say anything right now, I won’t be able to walk away.”
Her lips tremble but she stays silent.
My fingers reach out on instinct, brushing her cheek like I’m trying to memorise the texture of her.
The feel of home.
I swallow hard, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
I step back.
One step.
Two.
I let the pain crawl up my throat like fire.
And then I say it.
Low.
Gravel-rough.
Breaking me with every syllable.
“Goodbye, butterfly.”
I walk out before I can change my mind.
Before I fall apart in her arms again.
