arindalee

The room hung heavy with unspoken farewells. Our hands clung to each other, as if desperate to defy the inevitable. My eyes remained shut, shielding me from the truth I was about to utter.

“Let’s just end it,” I whispered, the words a blade against my heart.

His gaze bore into mine, a silent plea. “Never,” he replied, his voice a fragile thread. “Never say those words.”

And then, with the tenderness of a fragile bloom, I confessed my truth. “Do you know why I like you? Because you are kind. Keep living well,” I implored. “Don't ruin yourself because of me.”

His eyes, pools of sorrow, held mine captive. “If you really think about this for me,” he murmured, “Then open your eyes. Say it while looking at me.”

But I couldn’t. To meet his gaze was to surrender—to melt into the warmth of his love, to lose myself in the depths of his soul.

“I can’t,” I admitted, my voice a fragile echo.

He released my hand, rising from our shared space. “I’ll think about it,” he promised, and with that, he stepped away, leaving me alone in the fading light.

Tears welled, but I held them back, my eyelids a sanctuary for unspoken regrets. The room whispered our secrets, and the wind outside carried fragments of our fractured hearts. In that quiet, solitary moment, I wondered if love was ever meant to be easy—if endings were merely beginnings in disguise.