You Left, I Could Have Fixed Us

Alvarez's POV

 "Guess what, man. I fucked her. She was easy. You should have seen her face." The words left my mouth and hit wrong instantly. The guys at the table laughed and slapped my back like I'd scored some kind of point, but their noise only made the ache inside me worse. I forced a grin and downed the rest of my beer while the bar spun softly around me. I should have walked away. I should have stopped before saying it. But once the words were out, there was no taking them back. Diego leaned in, his voice low. "Alvarez, you're not doing yourself any favours, man. You know that, right?" "Yeah, I know," I muttered. My voice felt hollow, empty. I scanned the room, hoping for a way out. People were wrapped in small groups, talking, laughing, living. None of them knew the weight in my chest. None of them knew the sharp pull of guilt clawing at me. On the walk home, the city blurred into streaks of light and soft noise. I walked fast, hands shoved into my pockets. My mind replayed the fight with Maya, the argument that had started small and turned into a wound I couldn't repair. I saw her standing in the doorway, calm at first, then shattered when she heard what I said. Her body curled in on itself like she'd been hit. What I did was stupid. I knew it. I kept telling myself the other man was nothing, a lapse, a moment of weakness where my ugly side got the better of me. But picturing her crying into the pillow made the taste of pride in my mouth turn bitter. I got home, and the apartment felt emptier than usual. No sound of her making tea. No little notes left on the fridge. No laughter. I collapsed onto the couch, phone blinking in the dark. Her number stayed dark. No reply, no angry voice, no silence that meant she was thinking of me. Nothing but my own breath, loud in my ears. The next morning, my mom was in the kitchen before the sun. She moved with that quiet grace, like she held the house together in her hands. She looked up as I shuffled in, not surprised, just watchful. "You look tired," she said softly. The words made me feel small. I shrugged, pushed cereal into a bowl, and sat while she watched. I couldn't keep the truth from her. I couldn't hide anything. "It's Maya, isn't it?" she asked after a long pause. I kept my eyes on the spoon, scraping it against the bowl. "We fought," I admitted. Saying it aloud made it real. She sat across from me, hands folded. "Did you do something to hurt her?" Her voice was calm, but heavy. "I said some things," I admitted. I wanted to shift blame, to say it wasn't all me, but the truth was sharp and clean. I cheated. I let a moment of weakness become a weapon, and I'd used it as proof that she didn't need me. "Alvarez," she said softly, then went quiet. The kind of silence that meant she was trying to find the words I needed to hear. "You need to fix it." I wanted to tell her I could. I wanted to tell her I'd climb to her window if I had to, beg, kneel, promise. But I looked down at my hands, the same hands that had caused this mess, and felt like a stranger. I didn't know how to promise to be different without it sounding empty. Later that afternoon, I ran into Leah by chance at the corner store. She stood with a list, eyes cold. The moment she saw me she dropped her bag and approached like she would fight if I stepped away. "You know what you did?" she demanded. No small talk, no easing in. Just truth thrown at me. "Yeah," I said, because there was nothing else. "Do you know how much she cries?" Her voice tightened, and I flinched under it. "Do you know how she walks around like she's waiting for a train that never comes? Stop making it worse." Her words stuck to my skin. I tried to shrug them off, but they didn't leave. I watched her walk off, clutching the bag like it was armour. That night I found myself on her street. I didn't know why. Maybe I thought the house would open if I knocked loud enough. Maybe I wanted to see the place where she had left. Maybe I wanted to punish myself with the sight of the door she had shut on me. Across the street, her window glowed faintly. I watched for a long time. I wanted to see her silhouette, to know she was okay. But it was just the porchlight. An empty porch. A quiet home. A life I had helped break. My phone buzzed endlessly with messages. Friends checking in. People were asking if I was okay. I left them all unanswered. Speaking would make it real. Owning what I'd done would make it permanent. Back in my apartment, I paced. Memories came at me like knives. The first time she laughed at something stupid I said. Getting lost on the ferry and laughing about it. Mornings curled in bed while rain tapped the windows, half promises spilling between us. And then the bad. Nights I stayed out and ignored her calls. Shouting matches over tiny things that became everything. Times I let pride keep me silent when I should have admitted I was wrong. I sat at my desk and opened my messages. The texts I had sent after the bar stared back at me, harsher than I remembered. I wanted to smash the phone against the wall. I typed and deleted a few times before finally sending a small, stupid message. I asked her to meet me, to let me explain. I hit send before reason could stop me. The three little dots appeared. Her typing. My chest jumped. And then it stopped. No new message. My hands went cold. Not frozen, just empty. She had read it. Maybe she was already walking away. I left the apartment, walking without thinking. I ended up at the old park where we used to go late at night. A bench under the tree where we had once sat and talked about nothing important. I sat, face in hands, and felt the weight crushing me. Pride was heavy. Guilt heavier. Fear was the worst. Fear that she would find someone steady and kind. Fear that the easy, beautiful moments I took for granted would belong to another man. I didn't want that. I wanted her to come back, to forgive me, to rebuild what we had. But rebuilding sounded like a repair with no guarantees. What if the cracks were too wide to ever fix? I stayed on the bench until the sky lightened. People passed, going about their lives. The world didn't stop for me. It didn't slow down for the mess I had made. When I finally walked back, my legs felt heavier than ever. I opened the door, went straight to my desk, and whispered to the empty apartment, "I could have fixed us." No answer came. Silence was all that waited, and I sat with the truth that maybe I had already made it impossible.