She came over on a Sunday.
The city was quiet in that early afternoon kind of way—like it knew something was ending.
I hadn't texted her much that week.
She hadn't pushed.
But when she knocked on the door, I knew what was coming.
The air already felt heavier than it should've.
She stepped inside, stood by the window, and didn't take her coat off.
That was the first sign.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey."
Silence.
And then—
"I've been thinking a lot," she began, voice calm, almost too calm. "And I want to say this before it gets bitter."
I nodded, afraid to speak.
Because I already knew.
"You're not a bad person, Barry."
She looked at me—really looked.
"But you hurt me. Not all at once. But slowly. Quietly. In all the ways people don't notice until it's too late."
I opened my mouth. Closed it again.
"I kept hoping you'd show up," she continued. "Not just physically. Not just a text. I mean you. The version of you I met. The one who listened. Who cared."
"I'm trying," I said. It came out small.
"I know," she replied, and for some reason, that hurt the most.
She walked over, placed a small envelope on the table—her handwriting across the front.
Barry.
"I wrote this a few nights ago," she said. "Didn't know if I'd give it to you. But I figured... maybe you'll read it when you're ready."
Tears pressed at the edges of her eyes, but she blinked them away.
"I forgive you," she said quietly.
And with that, she left.
No slammed door.
No dramatic goodbye.
Just a woman choosing peace over potential.
And me—standing in the center of my living room,
holding nothing.