The response came instantly.
you didn't text last night. knew something was wrong. where are you?
I wiped more blood from my knuckles. Left a rust-colored streak across expensive tile.
home. come alone.
A pause. Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
you bleeding or just brooding?
I stared at the question. At the casual concern threaded through humor. At the assumption that whatever was wrong could be fixed with ice and sarcasm.
He didn't know.
Didn't understand what I'd done.
What I'd lost.
I typed:
she's gone.
The three dots appeared immediately. Stayed there. Froze.
Then:
on my way.
I dropped the phone.
It clattered against tile. Screen cracked. I didn't pick it up.
I tilted my head back against the wall and let the silence crush me. Let it press down on my chest until breathing hurt. Until existing hurt. Until the weight of the empty house became unbearable.
Belle was gone.
By my choice.
My hand was broken.
My heart felt worse.
The house echoed with absence. Her scent lingered on my shirt. Her warmth still ghosted across my skin. Her voice played on repeat in my head—I'll come back—and I'd destroyed that promise with two words.
Don't come back.
"I should have kept you,” I whispered into the empty room. The words cracked. "God, I should have kept you."
But I didn't.
Because keeping her would have killed her. Because possession wasn't love. Because letting her go—watching her walk out that door—was the only honest thing I'd done since the moment I forced her into this house.
Because I loved her.
And I didn't know how to survive that. Didn't know how to exist in a world where loving someone meant losing them. Where protection meant release. Where the only way to keep her safe was to let her choose freedom over me.
The broken furniture surrounded me like grave markers.
