I watch her sleep, curled up under the blankets she calls her own. The room is familiar—a single lamp casting warmth across the walls, her books stacked high beside the bed, her favourite jacket draped across the chair. It's her world, the one she ran back to, and where I can't stay. But just this once, I'm here. Quiet, watching over her, memorising everything.

She sighs in her sleep, a faint murmur slipping past her lips as if she senses someone there, as if part of her knows. I wonder if she'll remember this when she wakes up, that someone came to say goodbye.

There's a bittersweetness to it—a sense of loss I thought I'd left behind long ago. I've built a life out of forgetting things, of surviving instead of feeling. Yet here she is, proving me wrong just by breathing, by looking peaceful for once. For a second, I want to reach out, brush the hair from her face, but I know better than to touch what doesn't belong to me anymore.

A week ago, she was clinging to my arm in some cold, nameless town. She was trembling, tears caught in her lashes as she looked up at me, the last place I wanted her to be—by my side, getting dragged down. "You have to let me take you home," I'd said, my voice softer than I meant it to be, rough around the edges with the kind of regret I couldn't let her see.

"Then don't leave," she'd whispered. It had cut through me like a knife. All my words felt like lies in her hands. I'd held her, felt the weight of that truth settle into my bones, knowing damn well I was going to leave anyway. Because I was what she wanted, not what she needed. Not even close.

I can't offer her peace. Not real safety, not the world she deserves. What she doesn't realise, lying there in her dreams, is that it would only be a matter of time before the shadows of my life crawled into hers, tainting her light until she was unrecognisable.

I tell myself it's for her sake that I'm leaving tonight, walking out before she wakes up to find me here. It's for her sake that I took her home, that I traced a path through back alleys and empty roads, keeping her hidden, moving her from city to city like some damn secret I could never let go of. She thinks she owes me her life for that, and maybe she's right. But what I owe her—what I can't give her—is a goodbye that will stay buried this time.

There's a pull I can't deny, this need to stay close just a little longer, to soak in the sight of her so that I can carry it with me when I'm gone. My hand hovers inches from hers, wishing, aching, and hating myself for even wanting it. But if she woke up now and saw me, it would unravel everything. She'd ask me to stay again, and I'm not strong enough to refuse her twice.

For so long, I thought I was invincible, the kind of man who could walk through fire and come out untouched. But now, standing in this quiet room that smells of her, that hums with her warmth, I know the truth. She was the one thing I could never protect myself from.

I close my eyes and take in one last breath, letting it fill my lungs, my head, the hollow spaces she left behind. When I open them again, the world is colder, sharper, and empty as I leave her world behind.

"Goodbye," I whisper, barely a breath, because I know she'd break if she ever heard me say it. And I walk away, leaving behind what I want most, because loving her means letting her go—giving her what she needs, not what I want.Because in the end, that's all I can give her.