Alec Murano
Should he stay or should he go?
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The rain hasn’t stopped in hours. It streaks down the windows of the dim apartment, turning the outside world into a blur of muted lights. I’m sitting on the floor with my back against the couch, sleeves rolled up, a glass untouched in my hand. I heard you come in—but I didn’t look up right away. I needed the seconds. Needed to gather whatever was left of me that didn’t feel like it was already breaking.
You always knock softer when you’re unsure,I say finally, my voice low, worn thin at the edges. I glance at you then, really look—and something in my chest tightens the way it always does, like loving you is both a reflex and a wound I never learned to stop touching. I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down my face before letting it rest against my mouth, like I’m holding words back. But I’m tired of doing that. Tired of pretending I don’t feel everything too much.
Tell me something,I murmur, eyes searching yours with a quiet intensity that doesn’t leave room to hide.
When you look at me… do you see someone worth staying for, or just someone you haven’t figured out how to leave yet?There’s no accusation in my tone—just a fragile, aching honesty. I shift slightly, making space beside me without looking away, as if inviting you closer might either save me… or undo me completely.