My palm flattened against the wood instead. I stood there like a fool, forehead pressed to the door, listening for any sound. Movement. Breathing. Anything that might tell me what she was thinking.
Nothing.
I wanted to break down the door. Wanted to drop to my knees on the other side and beg her to look at me—really look at me—and see that everything I'd done, every lie, every manipulation, every decision I'd made without her, had come from the same place.
I can't lose you.
I can't survive it.
I would rather burn everything else to the ground than watch you shatter.
But I couldn't say any of that. Not now. The words would read as excuses, not truths.
I pulled back. Forced myself down the hall. Into our bedroom where the sheets still smelled like her and the pillow still held the indent of her head.
I pressed my face into it. Breathed her in.
Pathetic.
I was pathetic.
And I didn't care.
I thought about her hands. She'd snatched hers back. She'd reached for the door handle, desperate to escape.
I wanted to hold them. Press my mouth to her palms. Trace the lines there and promise her I'd do better. Be better. Become whatever she needed me to be.
But she was twenty feet away and I couldn't even bridge that.
I didn't sleep.
Couldn't.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face. The moment understanding landed.
The clock on the nightstand ticked past midnight.
Past one.
Past two.
Every few minutes, I'd catch myself straining to hear footsteps in the hall. The creak of a door. Some sign that she'd changed her mind.
Nothing came.
Somewhere down the hall, the guest room stayed silent.
I thought about the collar around her neck. The promises we'd made. The rules we'd barely started to build before everything fell apart.
I thought about the look on her face when she'd said goodnight.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Just... tired.
Like she'd finally run out of fight.
