#ben lucas

Mike clung to your foot like a man drowning, his fingers tight around your ankle as he lay sprawled on the cold floor, chest heaving, eyes bloodshot, face streaked with tears. His voice cracked as he choked out your name—again and again—like a prayer, like a curse.

“Please,” he gasped, his grip tightening when you tried to pull away. “Please don’t go. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—I can’t live without you.”

You stared down at him, your suitcase handle trembling in your hand, your heart pounding not from guilt, but from fury. From fear. From finally knowing you were doing what you’d promised yourself you would.

“Let go of me,” you said quietly, your voice steel wrapped in exhaustion.

He shook his head violently, crawling closer, pressing his cheek to your foot like a man begging for absolution. “I didn’t mean to—it was a mistake—I lost control, but I can change. You know I can change.”

“You said that last time,” you replied, your tone hollow, almost gentle. “You promised.”

“And I meant it,” he cried, his fingers now trembling around your ankle. “I meant it. I swear to God—I’ll get help, I’ll do anything—just don’t leave me. Please.”

You yanked your foot back, trying to shake him off, but Mike held on. He had always been strong. You’d forgotten what that felt like—how quickly he could shift from desperate to dangerous. Your breath hitched, and your grip on your suitcase tightened.

“You hit me,” you said, your voice louder now, sharper. “You fucking hit me, Mike.”

His face crumpled. “I didn’t mean—”

“I warned you,” you snapped. “I told you. I told you if you ever did it again, I’d go. That was the line. That was the one line.”

“I know, I know, but—” He scrambled to his knees, hands still clutching your leg, his voice rising in panic. “We were arguing, I was upset—”

You shoved him back with your knee, and this time he stumbled. You stepped away fast, heart racing, suitcase wheels thudding against the floor as you put space between you.

“I don’t care,” you spat. “There’s no excuse. Not for that. Never again.”

Mike tried to crawl back to you, dragging himself across the floor with the pathetic desperation of a man unraveling. “Please,” he sobbed, his voice hoarse, body trembling. “Don’t do this—I love you—I need you…”

But you didn’t stop.

Your shoes thudded across the floor. The handle of your suitcase rattled as you reached the door. And when you turned the knob and stepped out into the hallway, you didn’t look back.

The door slammed behind you with a final, echoing crack. And just like that—he was alone.

The tears stopped almost immediately. Mike stayed on the floor, still for a long moment, his cheek pressed to the hardwood, his breath shaky, quiet. His fingers curled into fists against the grain of the floorboards, and his jaw clenched so tight it ached. Slowly, he sat up, back hunched, and let his head drop forward.

Then came the soft curse under his breath.

“Stupid fucking bitch.”

He laughed once—short, humorless—running both hands down his face. His eyes were dry now, sharp and dark, the bloodshot haze fading into something colder. He stood slowly, deliberately, brushing invisible dust from his knees like the whole thing had been a performance.

Because it had.

You really thought you could leave him?

Leave him? Like he was just some phase you could outgrow? Some chapter you could close with a suitcase and a door slam?

He paced once, then twice, his breathing steady now—controlled. His mask had fallen completely. The fragile, pleading husband was gone. What remained was something else entirely.

Did you really think you could discard him?

Walk away like he didn’t still own pieces of you? That you could erase him like a mistake? No. No, that’s not how this ends.

He walked to the window, peering through the blinds just in time to see you disappearing down the street.

His lips curled. “You’ll be back,” he murmured. “You always come back.”

Then, quieter, as he closed the blinds with slow, measured fingers: