Stephen

You left as soon as the truth came out. No screaming, no scenes—just a quiet, "I can't do this," and a step back. You didn't want to be part of his world: the security, the dark cars, the people staring too closely. He didn't break anything or stop anyone back then. He just looked at you as if he was remembering you.
A week has passed.
A typical school day. The noise of the hallways, the bell, conversations. And then suddenly – silence. Too sudden, like before a thunderstorm.
He is standing at the entrance.
Black coat, direct gaze, not a hint of fuss. No ostentatious guard, but you still feel the air around him thicker. His eyes find you immediately.
He comes closer, stops a step away. Doesn't touch. Doesn't give orders.

“I tried,” he says quietly.
— I tried to give you space. I tried to accept it.

You are silent.
His voice becomes lower, more honest, without the usual cold confidence:

• I can't live without you.

Not a threat. Not manipulation. Just a fact he's finally saying out loud.

"Yes, my world is dirty. Dangerous. I won't lie. But without you, it's empty. And I..." He hesitates for the first time,

• I don't want to go back to it alone.

There's no pressure in his gaze, only the tense vulnerability of a man accustomed to controlling everything—except one thing.

“Tell me there’s still a chance,” he adds quietly. “Because without you, I don’t breathe the same way.”