The sky was bruised, deep and dark, as if the heavens themselves had been holding their breath for this moment. I could feel the weight of it pressing down on me, thick with something unsaid. He stood before me, hands trembling at his sides, his jaw clenched like he was holding something in—like if he let it slip, it would shatter us both.

And maybe it would have. Maybe it already had.

I knew what was coming before he said it. I have felt it in the spaces between us—in the way his fingers hesitate before touching mine, in the way his voice sounds like a half-written goodbye. Still, when the words leave his lips, they ripped through me like jagged glass.

“I’ll let you go.”

My breath catched. Just for a second. Then I exhaled, slow and steady, as if I could force the panic out of my body. “How noble of you,” I said, but my voice was sharp, cracked at the edges. “Like you’re doing me a favor?”

He swallowed hard. He looks down at his hands. The same hands that have held me like I was something precious, something worth keeping. His hands were fists, like he was fighting himself. I wanted to reach for them, to pry them open, to tell him he didn’t have to fight me, too.

“You deserve more,” he said finally.
I laughed. A hollow, humorless sound. “More than you?”
He flinched but didn’t deny it.

His eyes, dark and tormented, met mine, and I saw it there—the war he was waging with himself. He thought he was doing the right thing. That I would be better off without the love he had to give. That his flaws were too sharp, his hands too stained, his heart too ruined to hold mine.

And maybe I would’ve believed him, if I didn’t know better.

I stepped closer, forcing him to see me, really see me. “You think I don’t know your flaws?” my voice trembled, but I didn’t stop. “You think I don’t see the cracks? I love you in spite of them. I love you because of them.”
He shook his head, eyes burning, “That’s the problem.”
My throat tightened. “Then let me be the one to decide what I can and can’t handle.”
“It hurts,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It hurts that you look at me, with all my flaws, all my sins, and you still say you’re happy with me. It hurts that you’re settling for me.”
I blink, stunned. “You think I’m settling for you?”
His silence is answer enough.

I took a step forward. “You’re unbelievable,” my voice shook. “Do you think love is about deserving? Do you think I look at you and measure your worth?”
His jaw clenched, “I don’t want to keep giving you flawed love. Flawed happiness.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to shake him, force him to see himself the way I do. But I know him. He had already decided that he is unworthy, and no amount of my love can undo that.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered.
“Then don’t.”
He looked away, like the answer was written in the cracks on the pavement, in the dirt under his shoes, anywhere but in my eyes. “You don’t understand,” he said finally. “I love you, but—”
I stepped forward, fists clenched. “But what?” I demanded. “But you’re too broken? Too flawed? Too much of a fucking mess to love me back the way I deserve?”

His gaze lifted to meet mine, and for the briefest moment, I saw the boy who once held me like I was the best thing that ever happened to him. The boy who kissed me and told me I felt like home. The boy who cooked with me and danced to music from our own mouths. The boy who said he loves me more than I’ll ever know.

He flinched, but I didn’t care. He needed to hear it. He needed to feel it.

He didn’t answer. He just exhaled shakily, his shoulders sinking under the weight of his own self-hatred. And suddenly, I hated him for it. Not for his flaws, not for his pain, but for using them as an excuse. For standing here and choosing to believe that he was incapable of being loved the way I loved him.
“I tried,” he said softly. “I swear I tried.”
“And what?” my voice cracked. “You just decided that trying wasn’t enough?”
His eyes met mine, filled with something I couldn’t bear to name. Then, barely more than a whisper—like it hurt him to say it—he gave me the last words he’d ever give me.
“God knows I love you so much.”

The world tilted. The ground beneath me cracked open. My chest caved in. And then I laughed. I laughed because it was the cruellest thing he could’ve said, the most cowardly kind of love—to love and still choose to leave.

I let out a hollow laugh, one that sounded too much like a sob. “You bloody liar.”
He stiffened.
“If you did,” I whispered, my voice raw, “you wouldn’t be letting go.”

For a second, just a second, I thought he would take it back. That he’d finally see the truth. That love isn’t about being whole, or perfect, or worthy. It’s about choosing someone, despite it all. But he didn’t.

He just closed his eyes, as if trying to block out the wreckage he’d left in me, and turned away. And then he was gone.

The moment he disappeared, the sky gave in. The first raindrop struck my cheek, mingling with the tears I hadn’t realized had already fallen. Then another. And another. And then the heavens broke open and wept with me, as if the gods themselves couldn’t bear to watch this tragedy unfold.

I sank to my knees, sobbing into the downpour, whispering his name like it might bring him back. But the storm swallowed my voice, and the only answer I got was thunder. And maybe that was fitting. Because love had never been gentle with me. It had always been a storm. And now, drowning in it, drowning in what was left of my love, I wept. And the heavens wept with me.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by FETHI BOUHAOUCHINE on Unsplash