You hate yourself for this. Like clockwork, you're at C.'s apartment again. By the time C. opens the door, all your faltering resolutions crumble completely. C. is barefoot in blue pajamas and still the most arresting person you've ever met.

"Hey," C. says, their voice low and urgent. "We need to talk."

This is it. C. is looking at you in a way they never have.

C. pulls you into a kiss. Your arms automatically find their waist. You've had plenty of practice. You know instinctively that this time is different.

Their large, almond shaped eyes are watching you closely.

"I need to tell you something," C. says. "But I'm afraid."

"Don't be."

But C. is already recoiling, taciturn like always.

"Please," you're begging. "Don't be like this."

"But this is what you like," C. says flatly. "Isn't it?"

"I want to end things. I wish I could," you say. "Please don't contact me anymore."

"End things?" C.'s voice is incredulous, their voice bubbling with laughter. "But I need you."

It's all you ever wanted to hear, but this isn't how you wanted it to happen. Don't lie to yourself—you've already imagined it countless times over. Not like this. You're not exactly an after-thought, more like a decision that was coldly calculated upon. C. is sitting on the window sill like a small child. They look frail against the expanse of city behind them. You think—children can be cruel, too.

"You," C. sighs despondently. "It feels unfair, like pulling strings of a puppet. But what other choice do I have?"

They're debating with themselves and not even addressing you. It's another slap in the face, of course, but this is the first time C. has shown weakness to you. You're not sure if it's enough.

C. smiles from their place on the window. "Do you love me?"

"You already know."

"But why?"

"I don't know," you say. "I don't fucking know."

"Please help me then," C. says softly. "I really need your help, and I don't have anyone else to turn to. Please help me, and I can go away forever."