"I'm sorry," she says, and the words are sincere. That's probably what hurts the most, because Clara is good and kind and has always been more than you deserve. And you have tried over and over to be better for her, to deserve her but the simple truth is that you aren't, you don't, and you never will.

The worst part is that she leaves when you are achingly sober. She packs her bags after you come in drunk for the millionth time, raging drunkenly against the world before collapsing onto the sofa and promptly becoming dead to the world.

But she waits. You wake up to the beautiful smell off coffee, the curtains drawn to block as much light as possible and you wake up with the thoughts that a) you are an idiot and this headache hurts like hell and b) you love this woman.

You sit up, find the painkiller on the side table and down it with a gulp of water before clutching the mug of coffee like it's your lifeline.

"All right?" Clara asks as she comes in. Her voice is pitched soft.

"God, I love you," you say.

Her face goes sad. She sits down next to you. You are too hungover to understand yet.

"Harry," she says and there is a lot more than your name carried in those two syllables. "Harry," she says again. "I can't do this anymore."

You are choking on air. You can't breathe, you can't think as she rips your heart from your chest.

"I can't watch you ruin yourself like this. I tried, Harry. I tried to help, but you aren't looking for help. You're looking for an enabler, and I can't be that anymore."

"Clara," you finally manage. "Clara please."

She shakes her head. "My mind is made up, Harry. I can't anymore, all right? I just can't."

"I love you," you gasp out.

She smiles, and the sadness in it breaks your heart all over again.

"I know you do. It's just not enough anymore."

"I'm sorry," you say.

She walks away, ducks into her bedroom and grabs her bag. She kisses your forehead.

"I'm sorry," she says, and the words are sincere.