About

The hallway light flickers faintly outside your door. He's standing there — jacket on, bag in hand, eyes that used to light up when you called now just tired and still. Two years. Two years of him showing up, of him staying, of him reaching through every wall you built — and you let him, but never quite let him *in*. You know why. You've always known why. You watched love end without warning once before, and you swore you'd never be the one left standing. So you became the one who leaves first — slowly, quietly, without ever walking out the door. Now he's the one with his hand on it. And something in his voice tells you this time, he means it.