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Blaire goes still. For one second, I nearly undo everything. I nearly cross the room, take her face in my hands and tell her the truth. Instead, I stay where I am.

Blaire looks at me for a long moment before asking, “So that’s it?”

I swallow hard. “I think it has to be.”

Her eyes shine, but her voice stays steady.

“You think?”

“Yes.”

Another tear slips free, and she brushes it away without looking down. I make the mistake of trying to fix something practical. She slowly turns her back, as if trying to gain her composure.

“If you need anything when you get back,” I say, “a reference, introductions, anything with work, whatever you need, I can—”

“—Fuck off, Ross,” she says as she spins back around with tears in her eyes.

The words are quiet.

I stop.

Blaire takes a breath and looks directly at me.

“You should probably leave.”

I do not move toward her.

I do not touch her.

I do not try to kiss her or soften what I have done.

There is nothing I could give her in this moment that would not make the damage worse.

I simply nod.

“All right,” I say.

She nods back once.

I pick up my jacket from the chair and pause with my hand on the handle.

“Take care of yourself, Blaire,” I say.

Her mouth trembles before she gets it under control.

“You too, Ross,” she replies.

I open the door and step into the corridor. I can hear the door slam behind me before I reach the lift —but I just keep walking without looking back.

The lift carries me down in silence, and by the time I reach the lobby, my chest feels tight enough that every breath takes effort. I keep moving because stopping would mean thinking too clearly about what I have just done.

I tell myself it was necessary. I tell myself that Blaire deserves a life that is not built around waiting for me to finish another meeting, another crisis, another obligation that will always come first. I tell myself that ending it now is better than allowing resentment to grow later, and that there is a difference between wanting someone and being able to give them what they need.

None of it makes me feel better.

Outside, the evening air is cold against my face, but it does nothing to cut through the pressure building behind my ribs. I can still see the way she looked at me and I can still hear the restraint in her voice when she told me to leave.

I know I hurt her—and even worse, I know I did it deliberately.