*Lyric's POV*
The coffee had gone cold hours ago, though Lyric barely noticed. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the café, bright and intrusive, painting the table in harsh lines. She stared at the cup, at the faint ring of condensation, at the empty chair beside her. Today, the emptiness felt deserved.
Three years. Three years of giving her heart to someone who never gave it back the same way. Someone who had shared laughter, late-night talks, and secret smiles, but never commitment, never consistency, never a word that could make her feel safe. And today, she was finally done.
Across from her, Dax sat with his usual air of calm indifference. He ran a hand through his dark hair and tilted his head slightly, the motion casual but deliberate. He had always done this. The shrug, the faint smile, the look that said he cared just enough to keep her close but never close enough to matter entirely.
"I can't do this anymore," Lyric said, her voice low but firm. Her fingers trembled slightly as she gripped the edge of the table. "I can't keep pretending that what we have is enough. I can't keep pretending that I'm enough."
Dax leaned back, arms crossed. "Lyric, you know I care," he said, the words light, almost a tease. But she heard the truth behind them: he cared only as much as he wanted, only when it suited him.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, you don't. You don't care the way I care. Not the way I need you to."
There was a pause. The kind of pause that had broken her too many times before. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, a wall she had built up slowly over the years, only to feel it crash down one more time. And it hurt, because she had hoped—maybe foolishly—that this time would be different.
"You're really walking away?" Dax asked finally, his voice softer now, tinged with disbelief. It wasn't anger, not exactly. It was confusion, a kind she had hoped never to see directed at her again.
"Yes," Lyric said. Her throat ached, and her chest felt tight as if her ribcage had shrunk overnight. "I am. And I won't come back. Not this time."
Dax's eyes softened for a fraction of a second, a vulnerability she had rarely seen. Then the mask returned. "Fine," he said. "If that's what you want."
Lyric nodded, her lips pressed together. Relief and pain collided in her chest, each heartbeat sharp and raw. Three years of almost-love of laughter that felt like warmth but left her freezing inside, of closeness that meant everything and nothing at once. And now it was over.
She stood slowly, gathering her bag, feeling both lighter and heavier at the same time. The café door swung open and the cool air hit her like a shock, invigorating and bracing. The world outside seemed larger, brighter, more alive than it had in months. And somewhere in the ache, there was freedom.
It wouldn't be easy. The memories of small comforts would linger. The late-night messages, the inside jokes, the quiet reassurance she had once mistaken for love. They would haunt her for days, weeks, maybe months. But she had made a choice—a choice for herself, for her heart, for her own peace.
As she walked down the street, past familiar shops and busy pedestrians who didn't know the storm behind her eyes, she felt the weight on her chest ease just a fraction. She was allowed to be hurt. She was allowed to miss him. But she was also allowed to move forward.
To breathe.
To live.