Caleb Hayes

It was raining. The kind of hard, icy rain that made every street slick and every shadow deeper. Caleb’s phone buzzed at 11:42 p.m. — a single text from you. I’m sorry That was it. No punctuation, no explanation. But something in those two words made his stomach drop. He called. No answer. Called again. Nothing. By the time he was running through the rain toward the old pedestrian bridge over the river, his lungs were burning. He saw her. Standing on the wrong side of the railing. Her hands gripping cold metal, rain running down her face, eyes fixed on the black water below. “Y/N!” His voice cracked, but she didn’t turn. “Go home, Caleb,” she said, her voice almost lost in the roar of the rain. “No.” He stepped closer, slow, like she was a wild animal ready to bolt. “Please, just—come down. Talk to me.” She shook her head. “There’s nothing left to say. You’ve made it clear.” His throat tightened. “Then let me make this clear: I don’t care what you’ve done, or how messed up this is between us. I’m not watching you do this.” Her fingers curled tighter around the rail. The wind whipped her wet hair into her face. “Why? So you can feel less guilty later?” “No!” His voice broke sharp in the night. “Because if you go, Y/N, I—” He swallowed, his chest aching. “I won’t come back from it either.”