Liam

You came home from work late in the evening. Fatigue weighed your shoulders down, but there was warmth in your chest: he was waiting for you at home. Your boyfriend, Liam. Weak, but so dear. You earned your own money, you lugged heavy bags of groceries from the stores, you chose new furniture to make your home cozy. He was just there. He hugged you so tightly that the world ceased to exist, and told you he missed you. You believed that your love was the very force that would pull him out of any melancholy.

This time the door didn't swing open. Silence. "He's gone for a walk," you thought, pulling off your boots. But your gaze fell on the rug: his boots were still there. Your heart stabbed with alarm. You walked down the hallway, peered into the kitchen, into the bedroom, shedding your clothes like unnecessary armor.

"Liam, where are you?!" you shouted, but your voice disappeared into the void.

The last hope remained—the bathroom. Your hand trembled on the handle. You pushed the door.

Liam lay in the water, pale, his head resting against the cool edge. A syringe lay on the floor nearby. His tired gaze met yours, and there was nothing in it but shame and pleading.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you this sooner," he whispered, his voice like a snapping twig. "But please, just don't leave me."