I had left him alive.
I had left him breathing.
But I had left him broken in a new way.
The worst part—the part that hollowed me out completely—was that some part of me had needed him to be. Because if he could survive this without me… Then I would have to face what I really was.
Not a savior.
Not a protector.
Just a man who loved someone he was never supposed to.
The automatic doors hissed open, and the night air hit me hard enough to steal what little breath I had left. Cold slid under my collar, down my spine. I welcomed it. It felt like punishment. Like proof I was still capable of feeling something sharp.
The parking lot was mostly empty. Sodium lights cast everything in a sickly yellow, flattening the world into something unreal. My car sat where I’d left it, quiet and waiting, like it didn’t know what I’d just done.
I unlocked it with shaking hands. The door closed with a dull, final sound.
For a long moment I just sat there, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, breathing in shallow pulls like my lungs had forgotten how to work properly. My pulse thudded everywhere—throat, wrists, behind my eyes. Each beat felt like it was asking me something I didn’t have an answer for.
I had done the right thing.I repeated it like a prayer. Like a lie I needed to believe in order to keep going.
The drive back to his house blurred. Red lights bled into green. Headlights streaked past. I couldn’t tell you which streets I took or how long it took to get there. My body moved on muscle memory alone, hands turning the wheel, foot pressing pedals, while my mind stayed behind in a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and loss.
Every time I blinked, I saw his face. The way relief had broken over him when he saw me. The way it had shattered just as fast. My chest tightened until it hurt to swallow.
By the time I pulled into the driveway, my jaw ached from how hard I’d been clenching it. I cut the engine and sat in the silence that followed, thick and absolute. No hum of monitors. No uneven breathing. No voice saying my name like it was a lifeline.
Just me.
The house greeted me with darkness.
I didn’t turn on the lights right away. I stepped inside and closed the door softly, like I was afraid of waking someone who wasn’t there. The air felt stale, unmoving. Empty in a way that went beyond furniture and walls.
His mug was still in the sink.
The blanket he’d curled under was folded over the back of the couch, still shaped like him, like he might come back and finish existing there if I waited long enough.
I didn’t touch it. I set my keys down carefully. Too carefully. Like sudden movement might break something else inside me.
This was what I’d chosen. Distance. Silence. Space for him to heal.
I leaned back against the counter and slid down until I was sitting on the kitchen floor, my spine pressed to the cold cabinets. The chill seeped through my clothes, into my bones, like it was trying to claim me too. My hands lay useless in my lap, palms open, empty.
I would stay away. I would stop answering his calls. Stop appearing in doorways like a promise I couldn’t keep.
Stop being the first thing he reached for when the world tilted and gave way beneath him.
I would make myself the lesson.
I would let professionals do what I never could. Let them stitch him back together without my shadow hovering over every wound. Let him learn how to breathe without me standing too close, taking up all the air.
The pain in my chest wasn’t sharp—it was heavy. Dragging. Like something vital had been torn loose and left to die inside me. My shoulders curled inward on instinct, my body trying to protect a heart I’d already condemned. I pressed my forearm across my eyes until stars burst behind my lids, welcoming the hurt because it was easier than the alternative.
The house didn’t argue. It didn’t beg me to reconsider. It didn’t tell me I was wrong.
It just echoed.
