Tony leaned against the counter, arms slack at his sides, the echo of your laughter from someone else's Instagram story still buzzing in his head. "You told me you needed time. Said you were overwhelmed, that things between us felt heavy lately. So I gave you space. And then I see you out at that party, all smiles, like nothing's wrong." His voice was calm, but the kind of calm that comes after something inside has already cracked. "Don't say you need me when you leave... and you leave again."

You opened your mouth, about to explain, but Tony's eyes flashed. "No." He said, louder now. "Don't say you need me if you leave last. Because if I'm the one still standing here, still waiting—you're the one who left. You always leave, even if you're still in the room." The words hit hard, because there was no venom in them, just pure exhaustion. The kind that settles in your bones.

He looked down, his fingers rubbing absently at the ring he always wore, a nervous habit. "I keep telling myself I'll stop doing this. That I'll walk away next time. But I don't. I never do." His breath hitched. "I can't do it, I can't do it—" Then his gaze locked with yours, sharper now. "But you do it well." Not said with admiration, but with a kind of sad awe at how easily you could detach, how practiced your exits had become.