I didn't cry when he said it.
I remember noticing strange things instead — the way the light from the window fell across the floor, the quiet hum of the fan, how calm my hands looked resting in my lap while everything inside me unraveled.
"I think we need to stop pretending," he said softly.
Pretending.
As if the love I had poured into us was a performance. As if the nights I stayed awake worrying about him, the parts of myself I bent and folded to fit into his life, were all just something we were acting out.
I nodded. That's what hurts the most when I think back on it — how easily I nodded. Like I had already been preparing for this moment long before it arrived.
He talked for a while. About timing. About being overwhelmed. About how he didn't feel like himself anymore. I listened the way I always had — carefully, attentively, making space for his feelings while quietly pushing mine aside.
I wanted to ask him why loving me felt like a burden.
I wanted to ask when I became something he needed to escape from.
But the words stayed trapped in my chest, heavy and unsaid.
When he stood up to leave, there was no dramatic goodbye. No promises to find our way back. Just a quiet understanding that something fragile had finally broken.
At the door, he hesitated. Turned back. Looked at me like he wanted to say more.
"I hope you'll be okay," he said.
I smiled.
"I will be."
I don't know why I said that. Maybe I needed to believe it. Maybe I needed him to leave without worrying about what he was leaving behind.
The door closed behind him with a sound so soft it barely registered — and yet, it echoed louder than anything I had ever heard.
That was the moment I realized something important.
He didn't take my heart with him when he left.
He took the version of me that thought love meant enduring everything in silence.
And when the room finally felt empty enough for me to breathe, I understood this wasn't the end of my story.
It was the beginning of learning how to choose myself.