His Confession, My Shattered World

all communication. I deleted social media, changed my number, slowly, meticulously dismantling the connection

born, persistent, especially when he thought he

ng against the hood, a familiar figure in an increasingly unfamiliar world. He looked tired, his

He' s really here, I thought. H

a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand. He would hold me tight, twirl me around, tell me I was the

. He was there to deliver the breakup speech, to clear his

and walked towards him. "Hey," I called out, my vo

e took a step towards me, his hand reaching out, almost instinctively, to adjust the collar of my jacket. It wa

d have been a touch was replaced by an icy void. The gesture was a habit, a muscle memory, but the intention behind it wa

hard to breathe. He doesn't love me anymore. T

appear nonchalant. "Fell in a puddle on my birt

and I shivered, my cheeks flushing. It wasn't just the cold; i

Elva," he began, his voice barely audible, "There's s

t recognize, filled the air. My lips twisted into a sad, thin smile

rm. His face, already pale, drained of all color.

r, a raw, unadulterated terror I' d rarely heard, not even when I was in troub

She's at St. Luke's." He didn't even try to soften the blow, didn't try to make an excuse. The urgen

id, pressing it into my hand. "For your cut. From the glass." He glanced at m

aring down the street, leaving me standing there, a small tube

cern you' d show a stranger, not someone you' d promised forever to. I squeezed it tight, t