[Thinking it over, the last time he spoke to her was to set up this dinner. At least it was a nice conversation. The last time he saw her was nice as well-- nothing negative had happened, and he'd regret something like that. These were memories he let himself have. There was a giant gaping hole in the middle, and a part of him knew exactly what filled that hole, but he was still avoiding it, avoiding it until something or someone forced him to open the wound. Hadn't he wounds enough?]

You don't have to, you know. You don't owe me. I'm not exactly the best person for you to stay for. I let someone die. I loved them, and I let them die. You say I loved you, what if I do the same? Why stay for someone like me. Then I killed myself.

[all this is said without emotion, dead and dry like the leaves in winter, crumbled to a decaying ball, like his shriveled heart right now.]