Look, he says, his words soft and breathy against your closed eyelids, infinitely delicate. This isn't working out. Please don't make this harder than it has to be.

You want to hate him, you want to be furious; you want to curl your hands into fists and strike out at him, those hands which are clenched trembling in the collar of his shirt, crumpling the cool fabric. You want to cry and shout and become hysterical, sling what-happeneds and how-could-yous until your throat is raw and your voice is a sandpaper whisper. It wounds your pride that all you can manage are neat, quiet tears that slide down your face with understated devastation as you lay beneath him. You want to ask him what you did, where it when wrong, how it came to this, but the only word you can choke out past the tears is why.

It isn't you, he rushes to reassure, a clear sign that this is, in fact, all your fault. I just can't do this anymore. It's too difficult. Can't you see this is how it has to be?

And presses cautiously a kiss to your trembling lips, as if you might bite, or disappear beneath his touch. This is the way it has to be, Todd, he confesses to the curve of your shoulder, and you don't ask why again. Why is in the curve of his mouth, the darkness of his eyes, the tenderness of his hands. Why passes unspoken between you in a kiss too gentle for words, pale and fleeting. I'm sorry.