Her accusation hit him like a physical object, and Ben barely even heard the rest of what she said, much less took the time to process it. You gave up. A part of him wanted to argue with her, but he didn't know what he would say if he tried, because she was right. He absolutely had given up. He'd left the flat because he didn't want to fight with her anymore, and then he'd stayed out drinking because he didn't think there was anything else to do. No way to fix things, no hope in sight. He had given up, and he hadn't even felt guilty about it because he felt, deep down, that he'd already done enough. He'd given up on enough of his hopes and plans for the future, and made enough sacrifices, and tried hard enough already. He'd compromised on enough, and if he wanted to be done — if he wanted to give up — that was his prerogative, wasn't it? Didn't he have that right?

When she put it like that, though — less than two months in — it suddenly forced him to see how pathetic that seemed. Had he really exhausted his entire store of mental energy in less than two months? Had he really gotten to the point where he had nothing else to give, as he'd thought, or had he just stopped trying? He wasn't the only one who had made sacrifices, either — he was quite painfully aware of how their future differed from the one Melody had probably anticipated, and from the one she deserved. She'd given up quite a bit, coming with him to Paris — and she hadn't given up. Well, at least not in the same way he had; she'd stormed out of the room during their fight, but she hadn't stayed out on a two-day bender to drown her sorrows, so.

"Alright," he eventually said, quietly. "I —"

He probably should have said I'm sorry, but he wasn't quite there yet. He couldn't bring his mouth to actually form the words and make them a reality.

"I won't leave again," he said instead, a concession. Something to show that he was willing to move in the right direction, at least, even if he wasn't making progress yet.