"Now you walk back in and you don't ask if I'm hurt, don't ask if I was scared, don't ask how I survived that night. All you care about is that I wrecked your precious apartment?"
Something flickered across Les's face, his gaze shifting, as if he'd only just remembered.
"I was busy, alright? The conference schedule was packed, and Michelle's birthday only comes once a year. You're mature. You should understand."
He said it like it was obvious. Like I was the unreasonable one.
"Besides, it was just a small fire. You're fine, aren't you?"
I laughed—laughed so hard the tears almost came.
Three years of feeling. Three years of giving.
I'd put him before my own future, given up chances to advance, given up the spotlight that should have been mine. And all I got back was: *It was just a small fire.*
The laugh died on my face. My eyes went cold.
"Les, I'm breaking up with you."
He froze, clearly not expecting me to say it that cleanly.
In our entire relationship, I had always been the one to bend first. To compromise. To beg him to stay.
Every fight ended the same way: me apologizing, me tiptoeing around his mood, me smoothing things over.