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T wo weeks had passed since I last saw Damier, and his absence felt like a weight that lingered in the pit of my stomach. I had barely heard from him since he had his driver take me home. The way he left that night stayed with me—the way he barely looked at me, brushing a soft kiss on my lips as if it were an afterthought. It was almost like he was preparing to pull away, to distance himself from me. And in some strange way, I knew that would happen, even before I saw the way he closed himself off.

In the weeks that followed, I’d given him the space I thought he needed, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being pushed away. He hadn’t responded to my messages like he used to. I’d sent him information about his condition—recommendations, articles, things that could help him—and the responses were either delayed or short, and even then, he’d hardly acknowledge the effort. Twice, I invited him to dinner, only to have him decline both times with some excuse.

I had told myself I wouldn’t get too attached. I couldn’t afford to. My job, my life, everything I had built—it didn’t align with his world. Damier was too much for me. I had known that from the start. I never planned to change him, never expected to be more than a therapist who’d crossed paths with a troubled man. But somewhere along the way, the lines blurred. I had gotten too close, and now I felt myself pulling away, just as he had.

I sat in my office, the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights in the ceiling filling the space as I waited for my next client. Two weeks had given me enough time to reflect and come to the conclusion I had tried to avoid. Damier wasn’t my problem to solve, and I wasn’t willing to get hurt in the process of trying to fix someone who didn’t want to be fixed.

There was a soft knock on the door. I glanced up to see my third client for the day, a mother of two struggling with anxiety. I offered a warm smile, the professional mask sliding into place as I invited her in. The rest of the day passed in a blur of therapy sessions, my mind drifting between my clients and the way Damier had left things hanging. I couldn’t help but wonder if he even missed me or if he even thought about me the way I had thought about him.

By the time I finished my last session, I was mentally exhausted. I grabbed my coat and headed to see my brother, Donta, who had been ill again. The news wasn’t promising. Donta’s condition wasn’t getting any better, and I could feel the weight of that in my chest. He was always the one to keep me grounded, the one person who would never ask for anything, never make me feel like I owed him. But right now, I didn’t have the strength to give him the attention he deserved. I was drained. The emotional toll of everything—Damier, my patients, my family—was starting to take its toll.

When I finally got home, exhausted from the day’s events, I was surprised to see a familiar sight. Damier’s Ferrari was parked outside my house, the sleek black car catching the light of the street lamps. My heart skipped a beat, and I froze for a moment. What was he doing here?

He stepped out of the car with his usual swagger, that cocky smile on his face. But it didn’t feel right. There was something about the way he approached me that made me uneasy. He held out a single red rose toward me, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

“I figured I’d stop by,” he said, his voice soft but with that same edge of confidence that made my stomach tighten. “I missed you.”

I stood frozen for a moment, unsure of how to respond. The part of me that had once been drawn to him—compelled by his intensity, his raw energy—now felt like a distant memory. I wanted to believe that things could go back to what they were, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t ignore the reality of his life and what it had done to me already.

I stepped back, holding up a hand. “Damier, no,” I said firmly. “This here,” I pointed between us, “I can’t do this. We can’t do this. You have your life, and I have mine. And it doesn’t mix. Handle what you have going on, and I’ll handle me. But this—what we’re doing right now—I can’t do it anymore.”

The words felt like a weight was lifted off my chest, but at the same time, I could feel my heart pounding painfully. This was it. The final line was drawn.

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at me, that cocky smile faltering for the first time.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you in on my real life,” he said, his voice tight with frustration. “You’re scared, aren’t you? Scared something’s going to happen to you. I thought you said you wouldn’t leave me.”

“I’m not leaving you,” I said, my voice softening for a moment. “I’m just asking you to handle your shit, Damier. Handle your life. And when you’re ready, call me. But right now? I can’t do this. I can’t keep putting myself in the middle of all of it. Your world... it’s too much.”

He looked at me, his face faltering, his eyes showing a side of him I hadn’t seen before—vulnerable, almost... weak.

“I am ready for us,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

It hurt. It hurt more than I cared to admit, but I stood my ground.

“I gotta go, Damier,” I said, my voice steady, even though I felt like I was crumbling inside. “My brother’s sick again, so I won’t be available anyway. This was fun.”

I walked away from him, my heart racing as I moved toward the front door. I couldn’t look back, not now. I couldn’t let myself be pulled back into his world.

Before I could reach the door, he yanked me back, his grip tightening on my arm harder than I thought it would. His grip was firm, almost desperate.

“You’re not walking away from me like this,” he said, his tone low and dangerous.

I turned to face him, my emotions threatening to spill over. “I have to, Damier,” I insisted, my voice thick with emotion. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“Please,” he said, his voice shaking. “Don’t do this.”

But I wasn’t sure I had it in me to do this. I wasn’t sure I could keep doing this to myself.

With one final pull, I wrenched my arm free from his grip, the pain of doing so almost too much to bear.

“Goodnight, Damier,” I said softly, closing the door behind me before he could say anything else.

I walked into the house, the tears threatening to spill over, but I didn’t let them fall—not yet. I needed to numb the ache. I needed to block out the pain of what I had just done.

I poured myself a glass of wine, letting the warmth of the liquid hit my throat as I turned on some music, trying to drown out the emotions flooding me. I started a bath, the hot water comforting my tense muscles, but the moment I lay back in the tub, the dam broke. The tears came crashing down, and I couldn’t stop them.

I had just let go of him. I just walked away. And for the first time in two weeks, I allowed myself to feel the full weight of what I’d lost.