You Left, I Could Have Fixed Us

Maya's POV

"I saw the way you looked at her. And then I fucked her, Maya. You are no better than me." The words landed inside me like fire. My hands shook, the cup of tea rattling against my fingers. My heart thumped hard, an ache I could not ignore. "You... what?" I whispered, my voice trembling. Alvarez leaned against the doorframe, that dangerous smirk lighting his face. His eyes caught mine, and I felt heat rush to my skin. Desire, anger, and something raw lingered there, making my stomach tighten. Even now, after everything, I wanted him. I hated myself for it. "You think I would lie to you?" His voice was low, rough, and almost intoxicating. "No, Maya. I wanted you to hear it from me." My chest tightened. My hands curled into fists. "Why... why would you do that?" He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell him. The air between us crackled. "Because every time you pulled away, every time you looked at me like I had failed you, I felt worthless. You made me feel like I was not enough. Like I did not matter." Tears pricked my eyes, but another heat stirred deep in me that made me want to reach for him instead of pushing him away. "So... you went to her?" "Because at least she wanted me," he said, jaw tight. "At least she did not make me feel disposable." I laughed, bitter and broken. "So that is it? Pride?" His smirk wavered. His voice cracked ever so slightly. "You gave up on me first, Maya. You stopped fighting. You think I did not notice?" I set the mug down, trembling. "I fought for us every day. I put up with your moods, your anger, your drinking. I defended you when Leah and Zara begged me to leave. I believed in you when nobody else did." He stared at me, chest rising and falling, and for a second I saw him as he once was-the boy who kissed my freckles, the boy who promised me forever. My body remembered him, aching with longing and confusion. "And it still was not enough, was it?" His voice cracked, rough and desperate, and I felt a part of me weaken. The silence was suffocating. He was not just trying to hurt me. He was drowning, dragging me with him. "I could have fixed us," I whispered, tears sliding down my face. Even as I said it, I remembered how my body still wanted him, the way my chest tightened just being near him. He turned to the door. "No one can fix us." The slam rattled the room, but I did not move. I wanted to, but my body felt frozen. I sank onto the bed, clutching a pillow. His scent lingered in the blanket we shared, a reminder of everything I still wanted. My phone buzzed. Messages from Leah and Zara lit the screen. Leah: Leave him, Maya. He is poison. Zara: Pick up. Please pick up. I know something is wrong. I ignored them. I could not face anyone yet. I cried until dawn, my body wracked with ache, grief, and the faint, frustrating pull of desire I could not name. At the café, I moved like a ghost. The smell of espresso, the hiss of steamed milk, and the chatter of customers all felt distant. My boss glanced at me, concerned, but said nothing. Zara appeared before her shift at the boutique across the street. She leaned against the counter, dark curls pulled back, eyes scanning my swollen face. "You look like hell," she said flatly. "Thanks," I muttered, sliding a cappuccino to a customer. Her voice softened. "He did something, didn't he?" I swallowed, staring at the swirling foam. My hands shook. "Maya," she pressed. "Tell me." If I spoke, it would be real. "I... we fought. That is all," I said, forcing a brittle smile. She gave me a look that pierced through me. "You know what Leah is going to say." I groaned. "Do not start." "Then I will say it for her. Leave him. Before he ruins you." The words stung because deep down, I knew they were true. Dinner was worse. Leah picked at her food, her eyes sharp, my mom's worry heavy in the quiet. Dad tried to fill the silence with laughter, but it did not work. After the plates were cleared, Leah cornered me in the kitchen. "He cheated, didn't he?" I clutched the spoon, tears threatening again. "Maya, you cannot go back to him. Not after this. You will lose yourself if you do." I wanted to argue, to defend him, to say love was messy. But I could not. That night, alone in my room, his voice echoed in my head. I fucked her. And you're no better than me. Every replay made my chest ache more. I curled into myself, clutching the blanket, whispering into the dark, "I could have fixed us." And as the tears soaked my pillow, I realised something I was not ready to face. Maybe Alvarez never wanted to be fixed at all.

Maya's POV

"You're pathetic, Maya. Still crying over me?" The words burned across my phone screen like fire. Alvarez's message glared at me, sharp and cruel, and for a second, I thought I could hear his low, teasing voice slipping through the walls of my apartment. My body reacted before my mind could stop it, heat pooling deep in my belly, twisting frustration into something darker. I held the phone tight, my fingers trembling. My chest rose and fell fast, my breath uneven. My hands shook, but I didn't drop it. I hated how his words still made me ache, made my body remember him, made me want him even as I hated him. "Bastard," I whispered, tossing the phone onto the couch. I buried my face in my hands, pressing my palms against my eyes, trying to push away the sting of tears and the ache between my thighs that made me tremble. A knock rattled my door, soft at first, then louder. "Maya, open up. I know you're in there." It was Leah. I dragged myself across the room, wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve, and pulled the door open. Leah's eyes darted to my face, catching the redness I couldn't hide. She sighed, brushing past me without asking for permission. "You've been crying again." I closed the door behind her, my voice low. "I'm fine." "No, you're not." Leah turned, hands on her hips, her gaze sharp. "He texted you again, didn't he?" I stayed silent, my thighs shifting under the weight of my own tension. "Maya, stop protecting him," she pressed. "What did he say?" "It doesn't matter." My voice cracked, betraying me, and my hand itched to touch myself, to chase the heat Alvarez always left behind. Leah stepped closer, grabbing my shoulders and forcing me to look at her. Her face softened, but her tone didn't. "It matters to me. You don't see what he's doing to you. He's cutting into you, over and over, and you just... You take it." The weight of her words pressed on me, and at the same time, so did the ache deep inside me. My fingers twitched against the soft fabric of my pyjamas, brushing over myself, imagining his hands there, his lips, his eyes. Tears spilt down my cheeks before I could stop them. "Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted him to cheat? To call me pathetic? To make me feel like I'm nothing?" Leah's own eyes glistened, and her voice broke. "No. I don't. But it kills me to watch you let him do this." She pulled me into her arms, wrapping me tight. My body trembled against hers, but my thoughts were elsewhere, on Alvarez, on the way he would smirk as I shivered beneath him. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe there was more for me than Alvarez, but even as I hugged Leah back, my fingers brushed my inner thighs under the blanket. I felt the heat in me coil tighter, aching, reminding me how much I still wanted him despite everything. The next morning, the café felt like the only place I could breathe. The hiss of the espresso machine, the chatter of customers, the warm smell of roasted beans-it wrapped around me like a shield, keeping the ache at bay for a moment. But the mask didn't last. Zara showed up just before noon, sliding into her usual spot at the counter. Her ponytail swayed as she tilted her head, her sharp eyes narrowing at me. "You didn't answer my calls last night." I avoided her stare, busying myself with wiping down the counter. "I was tired." "Don't lie." Zara's voice was calm but firm. "You were crying again." I froze, cloth in hand. Slowly, I looked up. "You sound like Leah." "Good," she shot back. "She's right. This is destroying you." My chest tightened. My hand itched under the counter, brushing myself lightly, heat spreading as I remembered Alvarez's hands on me, rough and teasing. "I can handle it," I muttered, my voice weak even to me. "No, you can't." Zara leaned closer, lowering her voice so the customers wouldn't hear. "Maya, I've known you since we were kids. You think I don't notice? You've lost weight. Your smile looks forced. You move like you're carrying a hundred pounds on your back. This isn't you." Her words hit me harder than I expected. I swallowed, throat dry, and my fingers trembled, brushing over myself. The memory of his smirk, the way his fingers would curl inside me, made me gasp softly. "He texted me," I whispered, breath hitching. Zara's eyes sharpened. "And?" I looked down at the counter, ashamed. "He called me pathetic." Her hand slammed against the wood, making the spoon in her cup clatter. A man at the corner table looked up, startled, before returning to his laptop. "That's it. I'm done watching this. You're blocking his number today. No excuses." "I can't just" "Yes, you can." Zara's voice trembled with anger. My fingers brushed against myself faster, needing the fire Alvarez always sparked in me. "If you don't, he'll never stop. He'll drag you lower and lower until you can't climb back out." Her words echoed in my head long after she left. Every buzz of my phone made my stomach tighten. My hand slid between my thighs, tracing heat, remembering his touch, the way he could make me shiver and gasp with just a look. That evening, dinner with my family felt like walking into a room full of unspoken truths. My mom moved quietly, placing bowls of rice and stew in front of us. Her eyes flickered to me often, lingering as though she wanted to ask but didn't know how. My dad tried to keep the mood light, telling a clumsy story about a man at work who mixed up reports. I forced a laugh, but it came out hollow. My hand brushed my thighs under the table, remembering Alvarez, imagining him leaning over me, his hands heavy and rough, making me shiver. Leah sat beside me, her hand brushing mine under the table every so often, a silent reminder that she was there. It only made my body ache more, the ache for him and the shame for feeling it so intensely. After we finished eating, she leaned close. "Promise me you won't go back to him." Her words were soft, but they stabbed through me. My fingers itched beneath the table, curling against the warmth in me. I stared at the tablecloth, tracing the faded pattern with my finger. My voice was barely a whisper. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore." Leah squeezed my hand harder. "Then let me help you figure it out. Please." I wanted to say yes. I wanted to promise her. But the words stuck in my throat. Later, alone in my room, I gave in. I unlocked my phone and scrolled through the messages. Alvarez's words were waiting, sharp and poisonous. You're nothing without me. Don't act like you're better. You'll come back. You always do. Each one hit like a blade. My chest ached, my breath uneven. I pressed the phone to my chest, tears streaming freely, and my hand slid under the blanket, touching myself. The memory of him, his cruel smirk, the brush of his fingers, made me shiver and gasp. I imagined him here, hovering over me, watching me, teasing me until I couldn't hold back. My fingers moved faster, heat pooling and spilling through me as I whispered his name into the darkness. My body trembled with want and shame, aching for the one who had hurt me most. Leah's pleading, Zara's anger, my mother's silence, all of it swirled in my head, mixing with the memory of Alvarez's smile, the warmth of his arms, the sound of his laugh when it was still mine. I pressed my hand to my chest, breathless, skin flushed, whispering into the darkness, "I could have fixed us." And maybe the worst part was that a small, broken part of me still believed it.

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.