It's unbelievable that I'm standing here and seeing him leave once more. With each step Rogan makes toward the door, his coldness suffocates me like a dense cloud. I want to reach out to him, pleading with him to turn back and assure me that everything will be alright. However, I don't. I'm too terrified of what he could say—or worse, what he might not say—to move, and my heart is racing in my chest.
I yell, "Rogan, wait," in a faint but frantic voice. He doesn't stop, so I swallow the lump in my throat and push myself to move in his direction. doesn't even turn around.
"You don’t have to do this," I add, attempting to seem more resilient than I actually am. "You don’t have to push me away."
The quiet between us is oppressive for a time as he freezes at the doorway, his back to me.
He
