Chapter 1: Empty Beds and Empty Hearts
Chapter Text
You lie in the bed you and Frank share, the sheets still warm from where his body used to be. It’s a fragile kind of warmth, the kind that disappears the moment you shift too much, so you stay still, holding yourself in place as though any movement might erase the last trace of him. The mattress cradles the faint imprint of his body—a hollow you could fit yourself into if you turned over, pressed your face into the cooling pillow. You don’t. You keep your back flat against the bed, your eyes fixed on the ceiling, unblinking, as though if you stare hard enough, it might shift or crack open and spill out an answer, something to explain why the air feels so heavy this morning.
There’s that thin fracture above the light fixture—you’ve been staring at it for months. Sometimes it looks like a river winding across a map, a route leading somewhere you can’t quite name. Other days it looks like a scar, the pale reminder of some old wound the ceiling has never healed from. Today it looks like a vein. Empty. Waiting.
The silence is a living thing, pressing down on you until you can feel every beat of your own heart in your ribs, steady and stubborn. The soft rasp of the blanket when you move your legs is louder than it should be. The faint hum of the refrigerator in the next room comes through the walls in a way that feels almost foreign, as though it belongs to some other apartment, to some other life. The quiet isn’t peaceful; it clings to you, heavy and airless, wrapping around your limbs like wet fabric. It feels like something that might never end, a kind of forever you don’t know how to break.
You wonder if he’s coming back—or if he’s already gone in more ways than one. He left at 4 a.m., the kind of early that isn’t morning yet, just a thinner, more fragile shade of night. You didn’t ask where. He didn’t tell you. Typical. The door had closed with that careful click, the sound of someone trying to slip away without being noticed. But you’d been awake anyway, eyes open in the dark, listening to his footsteps fade down the hall until they dissolved into the city’s breathing.
You guess he went to see Gerard. “Gee,” Frank calls him, with that same fond grin he used to give you when things were good—before mornings turned into these long, aching stretches of time without him. Lately, you’ve been hearing that name more and more. It’s always tied to late-night disappearances or early-morning returns, his clothes carrying the faint smell of smoke and something sharper, something that cuts the air between you. You don’t ask. You don’t need to. You know.
There was a time you would’ve gone with him. Back when the two of you were bound by more than love—bound by a hunger you fed together. You remember standing shoulder to shoulder in doorways that smelled like sweat and rust, pressing crumpled bills into strange hands in exchange for tiny baggies, walking back into the night with your pockets heavier and your pulse already climbing. It had felt like a secret you were both in on, a world you’d built together, one that made you untouchable. Until it didn’t. Until you woke up one morning and realized the thing that once made you feel alive was the same thing quietly killing you.
You got out. Somehow. Frank didn’t. You traded the high for something colder, sharper—pain you could control, pain that stayed where you put it. The drawer in your nightstand still holds the razor you promised yourself you’d never touch again. You tell yourself it’s just there, nothing more. But some days, knowing it’s there is the only thing that loosens the knot in your chest. You never open the drawer. But you think about it more than you’d like to admit.
The silence he left behind this time feels different. Louder. Heavier. It’s not just the absence of his voice, his footsteps—it’s the absence of the possibility that he might fill it. You pull the blanket tighter, trying to trap what little of his warmth remains, but it slips away like breath in cold air. Outside, a thin ribbon of daylight pushes through the blinds, hesitant and pale. It reminds you of the first morning you ever woke up next to him—sunlight spilling across his bare shoulders, his hair a tangle, his arm heavy around your waist. Back then, the mornings had felt like promises.
Now, they feel like questions you’re scared to ask.
You stare at the empty space beside you, your gaze tracing the dent in the mattress, the way the pillow still leans toward the center like it’s waiting for him to come back. You try not to count the hours until you hear the door again. And even then, you don’t know which version of him will walk through it—or if it will be one you still recognize.
Chapter 2: Scaring The Thought Of Kissing Razors
Summary:
Frank comes home-obviously high off of an unknown substance, breaking his promise, but you're not much better.
Notes:
OKAY soooo this chapter will definitely be much longer, after this chapters will come slower because school starts for me.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The door creaks open—slow, careful, like the sound itself might betray him. The hinges give a soft groan, swallowed almost immediately by the stillness of the apartment. He slips inside, movements deliberate, like he’s trying not to wake something. You can picture the way he stands there for a moment, just beyond the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light, scanning the living room like it might hold the answer to where you’ve gone.
The couch still carries the faint impression of your body, the throw blanket twisted where you left it, but you’re no longer there. A ghost of warmth lingers in the cushions. He notices—it makes him hesitate—but only for a second before he drops onto the spot you’d occupied moments before. The cushions sigh under his weight.
You’ve already gone back to the bedroom. To meet with an old friend. The kind of friend that has never asked you questions, never judged you, never walked out at four in the morning without saying where they were going. The friend is cold, thin, and sharp, and you’ve held onto it more times than you can count. The razor waits in the drawer like it always does, patient and unassuming, its existence a secret pact between you and the quietest parts of yourself.
It has been there through nights when the walls seemed to lean in too close, through mornings when you couldn’t bear the thought of sunlight on your skin. Through the fights—God, the fights—when his voice was too loud, his eyes too wild, and the smell on his clothes told you he’d been somewhere he swore he’d never go again. Sometimes you only needed to hold it. Sometimes… more.
But this time you didn’t have to guess. You didn’t have to sniff the air around him or count the hours he’d been gone. You knew. The knowledge settled in your chest days ago, heavy as lead, and now it’s just a matter of deciding what to do with it.
From the living room, he calls out for you—once, his voice stretched thin over the silence. No answer. The second time, there’s an edge to it, a little more urgency, but still you keep your lips pressed together. The sound drifts down the hallway and fades before it reaches you.
He waits, like maybe you’ll materialize in the doorway if he’s patient enough. But patience was never his strong suit. The third time, he doesn’t bother calling. You hear the creak of the couch as he stands, the soft pad of his footsteps crossing the living room, the floorboards sighing under his weight.
Finally, he’s had enough of the game—enough of playing hide-and-seek in a one-bedroom apartment. The rhythm of his steps changes as he moves down the hallway toward you. He doesn’t rush, but he doesn’t drag his feet either. Just steady, inevitable.
And you—sitting on the edge of the bed, the razor lying cool and silent in your palm—know that in seconds, he’s going to walk in, and find you in the middle of something you swore, months ago, you’d never let yourself do again. The promise had tasted so sure back then, so solid on your tongue, like words could be a wall strong enough to hold you back.
But promises are fragile things. They break the moment you press too hard.
The metal feels heavier than it should, as if it’s soaked up the weight of all the other nights it’s been here with you. You don’t even have to look at it—you know the shape of it by memory, the way your fingers fit around the handle, the way the edge catches the light. It’s a familiarity you hate yourself for.
He’ll see it, and maybe he’ll be angry. Or maybe he’ll just sigh, like he’s tired of this too, tired of finding you this way. You try to imagine which would hurt more—his fury or his indifference.
But then again…
He hadn’t kept to his promise either.
Not to you, not to himself.
He’d sworn he was done, that he’d stay clean, that he wouldn’t crawl back to the people and places that took more than they ever gave. You’d believed him—or maybe you’d just wanted to. Now you can smell the truth on him before he even opens the door, a bitter cocktail of smoke and something sharper. And if he could break his promise, if he could slide right back into the same darkness you both swore you’d leave behind…
Were you really in the wrong?
The thought curls around you, soft and poisonous, almost comforting in the way it excuses you. It makes the razor feel less like a betrayal and more like a balancing act. If he gets to sink, maybe you do too
The thought settles in you like a stone dropped into deep water—silent, but pulling everything else down with it.
The razor’s weight shifts in your palm as you adjust your grip, your skin prickling where the cool metal touches. You can hear your own breathing now, shallow and uneven, and for a moment you wonder if it will give you away before he even reaches the door.
From the other side of the apartment comes the faint creak of the couch cushions as he stands. Then the soft, steady thump of his footsteps. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just moving with that particular inevitability that makes you feel cornered before he’s even in the room.
The floorboards groan in the hallway, their sound stretching the distance between you. You close your fingers tighter around the razor—not enough to break skin, but enough to feel the edge bite faintly into your palm. A small reminder of what you’re holding, what you could do, what you maybe will do.
You try to swallow, but your throat is dry. The air feels too thick, like the walls have drawn closer while you weren’t looking. You wonder if he can hear your heartbeat from where he is, if it sounds as loud to him as it does in your own ears.
There’s a pause outside the bedroom. Long enough for you to picture him standing there, hand on the knob, deciding what version of himself he’s going to be when he opens it. The careful one. The angry one. The one that pretends everything is fine until it isn’t.
You know you should put the razor down. Hide it. Something. But you don’t move.
The doorknob clicks. Turns.
Light from the hallway spills across the carpet, crawling toward your feet. His shadow follows.
And still, you don’t let go
The door opens all the way, and there he is.
His eyes find you instantly. They drop to your hands before they finish taking in your face, and you watch the flicker in his expression—a quick tightening in the jaw, a flash of something sharp—but then it’s gone, replaced by a softness so sudden it almost feels rehearsed.
“Hey,” he says, voice warm, like you’re just two people meeting in the kitchen on an ordinary morning. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t know you were in here.”
You don’t answer. You don’t move. The razor is still in your palm, a cool, silent weight between you.
He steps further into the room, slow, careful, not like he’s approaching danger but like he’s approaching you the way he used to—back when his touch could undo you. His eyes linger on yours now, as though the thing in your hand doesn’t matter, as though he’s decided it doesn’t exist.
He sits on the edge of the bed beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours, but far enough that you know he’s leaving a pocket of space on purpose. His eyes flick toward your hands, but never quite settle on the razor—you can feel him noticing without looking, as if the trick is to pretend it isn’t there.
“Long night,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t want to wake you when I came in.”
You snort under your breath. “Didn’t want me to see you, you mean.”
He tilts his head, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “See me? I’m right here.”
“Not the version I was talking about,” you say, your voice sharper than you’d intended.
For a second, something flickers in his eyes—defensiveness, maybe—but then it’s gone, smoothed over with practiced ease. He leans back slightly, one palm sinking into the mattress. “You know I hate it when we… drift like this. Feels like we’re just missing each other by a few hours, a few words.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re not here when you’re here,” you reply.
The words hang in the air between you. He doesn’t flinch. “I’ve been trying,” he says softly, as if the gentleness might dissolve your edge. “And I know you’ve been… quiet.”
“Quiet’s easier than shouting into an empty room.” You shift the razor in your palm, the movement subtle but enough to remind yourself it’s still there.
He glances at your knee, then lets his hand rest on it—light, tentative, like you’re something breakable. “You’ve got a lot bottled up. I’m not gonna push. Not today.”
The faint chemical scent beneath his cologne is stronger up close, and it makes your chest tighten. You don’t look away. “You already know, don’t you?”
He holds your gaze, his expression unreadable. “Know what?”
“That you didn’t come home clean.”
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then he smiles—small, careful, almost fond. “Let’s make some coffee. We can talk about whatever you want. Or nothing. I don’t mind.”
“That’s it? No explanation? No I’m sorry?”
“Not yet,” he says, and the way he says it makes it sound like you’re the impatient one for expecting more. “Let’s just… start with coffee.”
You stare at him, weighing your next move. The tension hasn’t broken; it’s just shifted, curling into something quieter, something that’s going to stick around for a while
The kitchen feels colder than the bedroom, the pale light from the blinds falling in long, thin stripes across the counter. It smells faintly of last night’s dinner, a trace of garlic and something charred lingering in the air. He moves easily in the space, like he’s done this a thousand times—fills the kettle, flicks on the burner, leans against the counter like there’s nothing sitting between you except morning fatigue.
You hover near the doorway, arms crossed, watching him without really meaning to. The razor’s gone—back in the drawer where it’s supposed to be—but its absence doesn’t make you feel lighter. You feel like you’ve only traded one kind of weight for another.
“You take the last of the sugar?” you ask, just to fill the air.
He glances over his shoulder, smiling faintly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You dreamed of other things, though.”
His hands still for a second before he goes back to opening the coffee tin. “You’re still on that?”
“Still?” you say, stepping further into the kitchen. “It’s been ten minutes.”
He chuckles, like you’ve said something almost cute. “If I knew you were gonna give me the third degree, I would’ve brought breakfast as a bribe.”
“Don’t need breakfast,” you say flatly. “Need the truth.”
He spoons coffee into the press, not looking at you. “Truth is, I missed you.”
“That’s not the truth I meant.”
The kettle begins to hum, steam curling into the air. He finally meets your eyes, his smile still there, but thinner now. “We could fight about this, if you want. Ruin the whole morning. Or…” He gestures toward the coffee. “We could sit down, drink this, and remember what it’s like when we’re not tearing at each other.”
“You’re assuming those two things are separate.”
He laughs quietly, and it’s the kind of laugh that could almost fool you into thinking he’s relaxed—if not for the way his knuckles tighten against the counter. “You’ve got a point there.”
You lean against the doorway, crossing one ankle over the other. The hum of the kettle grows louder. He moves with a kind of practiced calm, pouring the coffee grounds into the press with measured care, as if precision here could bleed into the rest of his life.
“You still smell like it,” you say suddenly.
He doesn’t look at you, but his shoulders shift—just a fraction. “Smell like what?”
“You know what.”
He exhales slowly, the sound almost a sigh. “You’re imagining it.”
“I’m not.”
The kettle whistles, sharp and shrill, cutting the air between you. He takes his time pouring the water in slow, deliberate circles over the grounds, the steam rising and curling into the light. The smell of coffee fills the kitchen, warm and rich, almost enough to push away the sharper scent clinging to him. Almost.
When the coffee’s ready, he presses the plunger down with a steady hand and pours two mugs, sliding one across the table toward you. “Let’s just… be here. For a little while. No ghosts, no sharp edges.”
You sit but don’t touch the mug right away. The heat curls up from it, fogging your vision for just a second, making the kitchen seem softer than it is. “Ghosts don’t just go because you ask nicely.”
He leans forward, elbows resting on the table, fingers curling around his own mug. “Then maybe I’ll have to work harder to keep them out.”
It’s a promise without substance, a sentence made of warm air. And yet—some part of you wants to believe him, if only to make the silence easier to live in.
You take your first sip. It’s too hot, burning the tip of your tongue, but you don’t wince. He watches you over the rim of his cup, like he’s waiting for a sign you’ve decided to drop it.
But you don’t.
Instead, you ask quietly, “Who were you with?”
The question hangs there between you, steam curling up from both cups. He smiles, slow and measured, and for a moment you almost believe he’s going to tell you. But then he just says, “You know I hate twenty questions before I’m caffeinated.”
You let the silence answer for you.
The coffee is hot in your hands, the steam blurring the edges of his face. For a moment, you both just sit there, sipping slowly, as though you’re two people who never left each other at 4 a.m. for reasons that couldn’t be explained.
But the ghosts don’t leave. They’re just quieter.
The coffee between you is almost gone when the shift happens.
It’s subtle at first—his knee bouncing under the table, the way his eyes flick toward the counter like he’s thinking about getting up, about ending this before it turns into something else. But then his gaze lands on you again, and this time it sticks.
“You’ve gotten thinner,” he says.
It’s not a compliment.
You set your mug down carefully, not meeting his eyes. “I’m fine.”
He scoffs under his breath. “You’re not fine. You think I don’t notice when you pick at your food? When you leave half of it on the plate and pretend you’re full?”
“I’m just not hungry lately.”
“That’s not it and you know it.” His voice is sharper now, the edges catching. “You’re doing it again. You’re always doing it again.”
Your stomach tightens. “Funny, coming from you.”
That makes him lean forward, his hands flat on the table now. “Oh, so we’re playing that game? Yeah, I screw up. I disappear. I get it. But you—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head like the words are heavy in his mouth. “You’re killing yourself slow, and you think I’m just gonna sit here and watch?”
“You act like you’ve never watched before.”
His jaw clenches. “Don’t,” he warns.
But you push anyway. “You never cared when I used to bleed for you.”
“Jesus Christ—” He shoves back from the table so suddenly the chair legs scrape against the floor. He’s pacing now, running a hand through his hair, his voice rising. “Do you think it’s easy for me? Do you think I don’t see the way you hold on to that razor like it’s the only thing that’ll save you? You think I don’t hear you in the bathroom, locking the door so you can waste away in there, cutting yourself up because you can’t stand to be in your own skin?”
Your throat tightens, but you force the words out. “Better than being in yours.”
He stops pacing. Just stands there, staring at you, the air between you vibrating with something hot and ugly.
For a second, you think he’s going to leave again—grab his jacket, slam the door, vanish until the next morning. But instead, he sinks back into the chair, his hands pressed together in front of his mouth like he’s trying to pray the fight away.
“I can’t fix you,” he says finally, voice low. “And you can’t fix me. But this—what we’re doing—it’s just… it’s not living.”
You want to tell him you know. You want to tell him that maybe you’ve known longer than he has. But the words don’t come.
Instead, you pick your mug back up, even though the coffee inside is cold, and you take a sip just to have something to do with your hands
His words hang between you like smoke—thick, choking, impossible to ignore.
You set your mug down hard enough that it clinks against the table. “Not living?” you repeat, your voice cracking into something sharper. “You’re lecturing me about not living?”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t turn this—”
“—into the truth? Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t like hearing it?” You lean forward now, your hands gripping the edge of the table. “You disappear for hours—days sometimes—and come back smelling like a pharmacy dumpster, but yeah, I’m the one killing myself slow.”
His jaw twitches, but you keep going.
“You think I don’t notice? The glassy eyes. The way your hands shake when you think I’m not looking. You think the smell doesn’t stick to your clothes? To the sheets? You think I can’t feel the difference in you when you crawl into bed? It’s all over you, Frank. And you think you’re so fucking clever, but you’re not.”
He looks away, like the wall behind you is suddenly fascinating.
“I starve myself,” you say, the words like a confession and a blade all at once, “because at least that’s something I can control. You? You let that shit own you. You hand over your body, your brain, your life, and you let it chew you up. And I’m supposed to just sit here, smile, and say nothing while you talk to me about promises?”
His voice is tight when it comes. “That’s different.”
“No. It’s the same.”
“It’s not—”
“It is,” you cut in, your tone firm and final. “We’re both addicts, Frank. You to your poison, me to mine. You think your way’s better because it makes you feel good for a while instead of bad. But it’s still killing you. And it’s still killing us.”
That last word lands like a gunshot.
Frank’s breathing is heavy now, his hands gripping the sides of his chair. For a second, you think he’s going to start yelling again, really lose it—but instead, he just exhales a long, jagged breath and sinks back, rubbing his face.
“You think I don’t hate myself for it?” he mutters, almost too quiet to hear.
You watch him for a long moment, your chest tight, your pulse loud in your ears. “I think you hate yourself just enough to keep doing it,” you say. “Same as me.”
The silence that follows is different this time. Not heavy—just hollow. Like something’s been scooped out of both of you and left on the table between the coffee cups.
It comes back to you in pieces.
Not neat, clean snapshots—but warped fragments, like old photographs that have been left in the sun until their colors bled into each other. You don’t remember the whole night. You never could. But you remember enough.
The two of you in that apartment you couldn’t afford—the one with the peeling linoleum and the fridge that hummed loud enough to be a third roommate. The wallpaper in the kitchen was the color of cigarette ash, curling at the edges where the glue had given up years ago. The counters were sticky. Not with anything specific, just the kind of tackiness that comes from months of neglect.
Frank was leaning against the counter, a cigarette balanced between his fingers, the smoke curling toward the ceiling in lazy spirals. His hair was messy, his eyes brighter than they ever were sober, like two sparks waiting for something to catch. He had that grin—crooked, reckless, the kind that made you feel like the world was about to tip over in your favor.
“You ready?” he asked, shaking the little bag just enough to make the powder shift inside.
You were always ready.
It wasn’t even a question back then—it was an instinct.
You watched him set everything up on the chipped countertop. Your heart was already starting to beat faster just from the anticipation, that giddy, low hum building in your bones. Frank worked with the kind of focus he never had for anything else. Not for work. Not for bills. Not even for you, if you were honest. But for this? He was all in.
“You trust me, right?” he asked, not looking up.
You nodded, even though you both knew trust had nothing to do with it. This wasn’t about trust. It was about needing the same thing and knowing the other person had it.
The first hit lit you up from the inside—sharp, electric, like your skin couldn’t contain you anymore. It was almost too much, and you loved it for that. Your body felt too light and too heavy all at once, your heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to escape.
Frank laughed, that low, warm sound that curled around you like smoke. “See? I told you,” he said, brushing his thumb across your jaw. His hazel eyes caught the light just right, and for a second you thought—this is it. This is love.
You sat together on the counter, knees knocking, the hum in your veins matching his. You remember the way the apartment seemed bigger then, the air warmer, the night endless. Time didn’t exist. Rent didn’t exist. The morning didn’t exist. There was only now, and now was perfect.
At some point, the record player in the corner started spinning, though you couldn’t remember putting anything on. A song you half-knew filled the room, soft enough to blur at the edges. You swayed to it without thinking, your head dropping against his shoulder, his arm curling around your waist.
“You’re my ride or die,” he murmured into your hair, like it was a sacred vow.
You smiled against his shirt. “Always.”
And maybe you meant it. Maybe he did, too. But neither of you noticed how often you said it with a bag in your hands, how much weight the words lost once you sobered up.
The hours bled into each other until morning was just another shade of night. You’d end up on the couch, TV hissing with static, your head in his lap, his fingers tangled in your hair. You both swore—over and over—that you’d never stop.
And in that moment, it felt like a promise you could keep.
Even now, years later, you wish you couldn’t remember how good it felt. But you do.
Frank’s voice is what yanks you out of it.
Not loud. Not sharp. Just there.
“Hey.”
The kitchen isn’t yellowed and hazy anymore. The counters aren’t sticky with spilled beer and ash. You’re back in the bedroom, blinds drawn, the air heavy enough to taste. The razor is still on the nightstand where you left it. Frank is leaning in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to look casual, but his shoulders are too tight for it to work.
“You spaced out on me,” he says. “Where’d you go?”
Your throat feels dry. “Nowhere.”
He tilts his head, studying you like you’re something under glass. “You’ve got that look. The one you get when you’re thinking about… before.”
You don’t answer. You don’t have to.
He steps closer, slow and deliberate, like if he moves too fast you’ll bolt. “We were good then, weren’t we?” His voice softens, almost fond. “Messed up, yeah, but we had each other.”
You almost laugh. “We were killing ourselves, Frank.”
“Yeah,” he says, not missing a beat. “But we were doing it together.”
There’s something in his tone that makes your chest tighten—not regret exactly, not pride, but a strange, dangerous mix of both.
You glance at the razor. At him. And for a second, you’re not sure which version of him is standing here—the one in the memory, grinning with a bag in his hand, or the one now, with tired eyes and smoke clinging to his clothes.
“Don’t romanticize it,” you say finally.
“I’m not,” he says. But you both know he is.
And the worst part?
So are you.
Notes:
Was this okay.......? I was struggling while writing this and also I'm freaking stressing because I have school tomorrow, the next chapter will probably come out next week, I'm sorry for the wait in advance.
Chapter 3: I Would Drive On To The End With You
Notes:
okay so I've been writing my ass off and taking advantage of the fact that I have no homework so here's a couple more chapters xdd anyways thx for the kudos!! I rlly love when people leave them. Uhhh also this one is a bit short but the next one is much longer AND in Franks POV.
Chapter Text
You don’t remember how you ended up sitting on the edge of the bed. Maybe you were already there before the argument started. Maybe your body just knew this was where it should plant itself before you came apart completely.
Frank’s standing in the doorway, his hair a messy halo from running his hands through it, his jacket half-off like he couldn’t decide whether to stay or leave. His voice is sharp, almost brittle, but his eyes—those are the same ones from the shed all those years ago.
The memory comes back so fast it feels like whiplash. The smell of cold air and rust. The first burn in your lungs. His voice saying Now we’re in this together. You blink, but the present and the past blur until you can’t tell which version of him you’re looking at—the seventeen-year-old boy who handed you your first hit, or the man standing here now, jaw tight and words dripping with judgment.
“You’ve gotta stop this,” he says, gesturing toward the nightstand like it’s accusing you. “You think I don’t notice when you skip meals? When you go all pale and shaky and pretend you’re fine? You think I don’t see the cuts?”
The words hit like stones, but you’re not about to flinch. “You wanna talk about bad habits? That’s rich, Frank.”
“This isn’t the same thing,” he snaps, stepping closer. “You’re hurting yourself.”
“And you’re not?” Your voice is rising, louder than you meant it to be. “Every time you disappear for hours, every time you come back smelling like smoke and—” You stop yourself, but it’s too late. He knows.
His eyes narrow. “You don’t get it.”
“Oh, I get it,” you shoot back, standing now because sitting feels too much like surrender. “I’ve always gotten it, Frank. I got it when we were seventeen and you told me I couldn’t understand you unless I tried it too. I got it when you swore it was just ‘every once in a while.’ I got it every time you made me feel like saying no meant losing you.”
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly what it was.” Your chest is tight, but the words keep coming, faster now, hotter. “You dragged me into your mess and you liked that I stayed in it with you. You liked having someone go down with you so you didn’t have to feel alone.”
For a second, something cracks in his expression—just a flicker—but then it’s gone, replaced by that old, familiar smirk. The one that hides more than it shows.
“You make it sound like I held a gun to your head,” he says, voice low and almost amused. “You made your own choices. Don’t lay them all at my feet.”
The words land the same way they did back then—in that cold shed, when you were shaking and he told you it was on you. And just like then, you feel that exhaustion settling in, the weight of trying to push against him when he’s already decided he’s right.
But this time, you don’t sit back down. You don’t let the fight drain out.
“You can twist it however you want,” you say, voice steady despite the heat in your chest. “But we both know how it started. And if you think I’m gonna carry the blame for both of us, you’re wrong.
Frank’s laugh is short, humorless, the kind of sound that’s less funny and more you’ve got some nerve.
“Blame?” he repeats, stepping closer until there’s barely three feet between you. “You think I’m walking around like some saint? You think I don’t hate myself for half the shit I’ve done?”
You glare at him, breathing hard. “You hate yourself so much you keep doing it? You disappear, you come back strung out, and you expect me to just—what? Pretend I don’t see it?”
“I expect you to have my back!” he snaps, the words cutting through the air like glass. “You know what I’m dealing with. You know how hard it is to get clean.”
“Don’t you dare throw that in my face,” you fire back. “I got clean. I stayed clean. And you—” You stop, shaking your head because the words are almost too bitter to get out. “You use that as a reason to drag me down every time I start to feel like I can breathe again.”
He narrows his eyes, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth like he’s holding something in. “You think you’re better than me now?”
“This isn’t about better,” you say, your voice cracking before you force it firm again. “This is about you making me bleed just so you don’t have to bleed alone.”
That lands. You see it in the way his jaw locks, the flare of his nostrils. His hands flex like he wants to slam them into something, and for a second you think he’s going to yell—really yell—until the walls shake.
Instead, he takes a slow breath, tilts his head, and his voice drops low. Almost soft.
“You wanna talk about bleeding? Let’s talk about you. Let’s talk about how you starve yourself, how you sit in the dark with a razor in your hand like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart. You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t hear the water running for ten minutes when you’re really just in there, shaking, trying to wash the blood off?”
The words hit you harder than if he’d shouted them. Your throat tightens, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking away.
“Yeah,” you say quietly, “I do that. And you know why? Because every time I look at you, I remember the kid who told me I couldn’t understand unless I tried it too. And I remember how much I loved you, and how much I wanted to understand, and how fast I lost myself trying to keep up.”
Frank’s mouth opens, then shuts again. You can tell he’s fighting himself—between lashing out and pulling back, between telling the truth and twisting it.
Finally, he takes a step closer, the anger in his face smoothing out like it never existed. His voice is low, almost coaxing.
“Baby… we’re just messed up in different ways. Don’t make it you against me. We’ve always been in this together.”
It’s the same line he’s been feeding you for years, just dressed up in softer words. And like always, you feel that dangerous pull—the temptation to believe him, because believing means you don’t have to face how deep the damage really goes.
Frank’s tone shifts again, losing the jagged edge, softening into something warm enough to make your stomach twist. It’s a dangerous kind of warmth—the kind that feels safe until you realize it’s just heat before the burn.
“Look at me,” he says. It’s shaped like a request, but the weight in it makes it feel like an order.
You do, reluctantly, because not looking at him is harder than facing him. His eyes aren’t sharp anymore. They’re soft, heavy-lidded, carrying that same unguarded pull you remember from the early days. It’s the look he used to give you in the back of classrooms, your knees knocking together under chipped desks, or in bed under cheap blankets when the heater broke and you swore you’d just use each other’s warmth to survive. Back then, the world outside was too big, too far away to touch you.
“You’re the only one who’s ever stayed,” he says. His voice drops low, almost conspiratorial, like the truth isn’t meant for anyone else. “You know that? Everyone else… they get tired, they bail. You didn’t.” He leans in, just enough to feel closer without actually closing the gap. “Don’t start now.”
Your pulse pounds so loudly you’re not sure you catch every word. You hate that some part of you wants them to be true. Wants to believe you’re different. “Frank, that’s not—”
“That’s exactly what this is,” he says, cutting you off—but without the bite he had a moment ago. He speaks to you like someone coaxing a frightened animal closer. “We hurt each other sometimes, yeah. But it’s because we’re still here. Still fighting. You think I’d fight like this with someone I didn’t care about?”
The logic is crooked, bent into the shape he needs it to be. But it’s wrapped in enough sincerity to sound almost reasonable. Almost.
His hand moves—slow, deliberate—until his fingertips brush your wrist. Right over the skin that’s still healing beneath your sleeves. He’s not holding you there, not trapping you. Just touching, as if the weight of his fingers could tether you in place without force. The contact makes you feel both seen and exposed, like he’s looking straight through the layers you try to keep between you.
“I’m not your enemy,” he says. His voice is steady, eyes locked on yours. “We’re on the same side. Always have been.”
You open your mouth to tell him that being on the same side doesn’t mean the war isn’t killing you—that allies can still bleed each other dry—but the words stick. They always do. They get caught somewhere between your chest and your throat, thick and heavy and impossible to swallow down.
So instead, you step back. Just one small step, but enough to break his touch. “You make it sound like we’re some kind of team.”
His mouth pulls into the faintest smile, the kind that makes him look years younger and far less dangerous than you know he is. “We are. Just… a team that needs a little work.”
And just like that, the heat of the argument drains away. Not gone—just buried beneath a quiet, dangerous lull. The kind of quiet that tricks you into thinking the storm has passed, when really it’s just waiting for the right moment to return. The tension settles into the air like dust, fine and invisible until you breathe it in.
Frank steps back toward the door, moving like someone testing the floorboards for weak spots. His eyes don’t leave you, even as his hand finds the doorknob. “I’ll be in the living room,” he says, the words flat and simple, but carrying an unspoken warning: don’t do anything stupid.
When he’s gone, the silence swells, pressing in on you until it feels like it’s in your lungs. You stare at the doorway a second too long, as if you might catch a glimpse of him on the other side. You can still feel the ghost of his touch on your wrist, faint but insistent, like a handprint left in your skin. His voice echoes in your head, curling into the corners of your thoughts where you can’t shake it loose.
And you realize—nothing is fixed. Not even close. But for now, you’re both pretending it is. Pretending is easier. Pretending is safer.
You sink onto the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, and let the weight of it settle. Out in the living room, you hear the faint creak of the couch springs, the soft scrape of a lighter. The smell of smoke drifts in, bitter and familiar.
You close your eyes, not because you’re tired, but because looking at the empty doorway makes your chest ache in a way you can’t name. You tell yourself you’ll get up in a minute. You’ll join him, maybe say something that matters. But your body doesn’t move.
For now, you let the quiet have you.
It was the winter of your junior year.
The kind of cold that clung to your bones even inside, seeping in through every drafty window. In the hallways, the air smelled faintly of wet wool from soaked coats, and bleach from the janitor’s mop bucket. The old radiators along the walls hissed and clanked like they were trying to wrench themselves free, only to fall silent again.
You’d spent the whole day watching the clock. Not because you were eager to go home—you weren’t—but because Frank had told you to meet him after last period. That had been enough to make the hours crawl by like they were dragging chains.
By then, you’d known him for years. He was the boy who sat in the back of English class with his boots kicked into the aisle, doodling on the desk instead of taking notes. The boy with the smirk that made teachers sigh and girls tilt their heads toward him like flowers chasing light. He never seemed to try, and maybe that was the point.
And somehow, for reasons you never understood, he’d picked you.
He was leaning against the chain-link fence behind the gym when you found him, jacket unzipped despite the wind that made your teeth ache. His breath came in clouds, each one vanishing before the next formed. He looked like he’d been standing there all afternoon, but his grin was lazy, like time didn’t matter.
“C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the empty lot across the street.
You hesitated, tugging your scarf higher. “What are we doing?”
“You’ll see.”
You followed him, because you always did. The lot was nothing but frozen mud, its surface broken by footprints, beer cans half-buried in slush, cigarette butts scattered like seeds. Beyond it, tucked between overgrown bushes and a crumbling brick wall, was an abandoned shed you’d never noticed before.
He pushed the door open with his boot. The hinges groaned, metal against metal, and the air that seeped out was stale and cold. Inside, it smelled like damp wood layered over something sharper—chemical, almost metallic. You wrinkled your nose.
Frank pulled something from his jacket pocket: a small, crumpled bag. Your brain lagged a second behind your eyes before the pieces fit together.
“What is that?”
He shrugged, casual as a shrug could be. “It’s not a big deal.”
You didn’t answer. Just stared, waiting for him to tell you why.
“It helps,” he said finally, like that explained everything. “Makes everything… less.” He crouched, pulling a lighter and a small spoon from his other pocket, setting them on an overturned crate like he’d done it a hundred times before. His movements were smooth, practiced—nothing hesitant about them.
Your stomach tightened. “You’ve been doing this?”
“Yeah,” he said easily, the corner of his mouth twitching like he found your surprise amusing. “For a while.” His eyes caught yours, and something flickered there—part challenge, part invitation. “Don’t look at me like that. You don’t know until you try.”
You shook your head. “Frank—”
He stepped closer, his voice dipping into that coaxing register he saved for when he wanted something from you. “I’m not saying you gotta make it a thing. Just try it. Once. So you get it. So you know what it’s like for me.”
You wanted to say no. You even opened your mouth to do it. But there was something in his expression—something that made it feel like refusing would close a door you’d never get to open again. Like if you said no, he’d retreat into himself and you’d never reach him the same way.
“I wouldn’t let you do anything that’s gonna mess you up,” he lied, and his smile made you believe him anyway.
The first inhale burned like fire down your throat, your eyes watering, your lungs locking tight. Then, just like he promised, the edges of the world softened. The air felt thicker, warmer. The cold outside seemed far away. The knot you’d been carrying in your chest for weeks loosened. And when you looked at Frank, his face seemed brighter somehow—sharper and softer all at once, like he was lit from inside.
“See?” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a gentleness that made your skin prickle. “We’re in this together now.”
The words settled into your chest, heavy but almost comforting. You didn’t notice your hands were shaking until you looked down at them.
“Frank… what the hell did you just make me do?” Your voice cracked, a sharp note breaking through the haze.
He laughed under his breath, quick and dismissive. “I didn’t make you do anything. You wanted to try it.”
“I didn’t—” Your voice spiked, heat rising in your cheeks. “You knew I wouldn’t say no to you. You knew that.”
His smirk faltered, the warmth draining into something colder. “What, now you’re blaming me? You think you’re some perfect little angel? You’ve been miserable for months. I just gave you something that helps. Something that works.”
“It’s not supposed to be like this, Frank!” The haze was thinning, and panic was crawling its way up your throat. “You don’t get to drag me into your shit just because you’re too scared to deal with it yourself.”
He stepped forward fast enough to make you lean back, your shoulders brushing the damp wall behind you. “Scared?” His voice was sharp now, low and dangerous. “You have no idea what I’ve been through. You think you’re better than me? You think you can just stand there and judge me when you’re the one who—” His hand gestured at you, words snapping like a whip. “—who could’ve walked out the door at any time. But you didn’t. You stayed. You took it. That’s on you.”
You shook your head, blinking hard against the tears stinging your eyes. “You made it sound like it was the only way to understand you.”
“And maybe it is,” he said, the edge in his voice softening again as quickly as it had sharpened. His fingers found yours, just barely touching. “Maybe now you get me. Maybe now we’re not so different.”
And just like that, the fight bled out of you—not because you believed him, and not because you forgave him, but because you were too tired to keep pushing against the weight of his words
The shed door groaned as you pushed it open, the cold outside hitting your face like a slap. The air smelled cleaner out here, sharp with winter, but it didn’t feel better. It scraped against your lungs, stinging in a way that made you wish for the thick, suffocating air you’d just left behind. The kind of air that pressed close, damp and stale, but at least didn’t bite.
The light was dimming fast, the sky a bruised gray that promised snow by morning. The snow piles along the street had turned into shadowy mounds, shapes that looked like they could swallow you whole if you stepped too close. Somewhere nearby, the frozen ground gave a small crack under the pressure of its own weight, the sound sharp in the quiet.
Frank didn’t say anything. He just shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and started walking, head down, like nothing had happened inside. Like you hadn’t just stepped over a line you couldn’t uncross. Like you hadn’t just made yourself complicit in something you couldn’t take back.
You followed a few steps behind at first, your breath puffing white in the air, each exhale sharper than the last. The high clung to you in strange ways—your body both heavy and weightless, your skin buzzing while your fingers felt carved from ice. The warmth was in all the wrong places, in your chest and behind your eyes, where it made you dizzy. Guilt pooled in your stomach, slow and viscous, but the drug dulled the sharpest edges of it, turning it into a blurred ache you could almost ignore if you didn’t prod at it.
Every sound was too loud. The crunch of his boots on frozen gravel. The far-off hum of traffic bleeding through the still air. A dog barking somewhere down the block, the echo bouncing off houses and fences. Even the faint rustle of your jacket when you shifted your arms seemed deafening. But Frank walked like the world had gone silent for him. Like whatever was in his veins had switched off the noise entirely.
You kept your eyes on the back of his head, the way his hair curled against the collar of his jacket, dark against the fading blue of the sky. You wanted to ask him what this meant now—if things between you had changed forever, if this was going to become your new normal—but the words tangled themselves into knots before they could leave your mouth. You didn’t know if you were more afraid of the truth or of hearing him lie again, calm and convincing in that way only he could manage.
Halfway down the street, he slowed until you were beside him. His shoulder brushed yours for just a second, the contact warm even through layers, and you couldn’t tell if it was an accident or some kind of unspoken reassurance. The kind of touch that said I’m still here without actually promising anything. You didn’t look at him. You were scared that if you did, you’d see the answer you were avoiding written across his face—clear, undeniable, permanent.
By the time you reached your street, the streetlights had flickered on, their halos glowing faintly against the icy pavement. The light didn’t make things feel safer; it only carved the shadows deeper. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed, followed by the muffled sound of laughter, too far away to touch you. A thin wind whistled between the houses, carrying with it the smell of someone’s chimney smoke.
Frank stopped at the corner, rocking slightly on his heels, his breath visible in the amber light. His hands stayed buried deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was holding the cold at bay.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, like this was just another Tuesday, like nothing had shifted. His tone was too casual to be real, too steady to be true.
You nodded, even though you weren’t sure if you meant it. Your voice stayed lodged in your chest, heavy and still. Then you turned toward home, feeling the distance between you grow with every step—even as the thing he’d given you still pulsed faintly in your veins, warm and wrong, like a secret you hadn’t decided whether you wanted to keep or confess.
Chapter 4: UPDATE!!! IMPORTANT!!!!
Chapter Text
Yellooooo guys soooo I'm genuinely thinking about scrapping this because of school n shit.... BUT lmk if I should continue it, If so, I'll drop a chapter every couple days because I have like three already written and edited in my notes... I know I have no life but who cares right???????? Right guys????? Okay anywho... lmk lmk lmk.
Chapter 5: The Softest Lie (That's Enough)
Chapter Text
I stand in the hallway longer than I should, keys sweating in my palm, the weight of them cutting into my skin because I’m gripping too hard. The air outside tastes like asphalt and smoke, and I know it clings to me the way every lie does. The door looks the same as it always has—our door, painted too many times, a little chipped around the frame. But it feels heavier tonight, like it knows what I’ve been doing. Like it knows I’m about to walk into something I don’t know how to face.
I slide the key into the lock and twist. The soft click feels louder than it should, and I pause, listening. The apartment is quiet, no music, no TV, just that silence that waits with its arms crossed. I push the door open anyway.
The place smells faintly of coffee gone cold, of her shampoo lingering from a shower earlier, of the dust that lives in corners no matter how much we try to fight it. I step inside and close the door behind me as gently as I can. My shoes feel too loud against the floor.
I want to call her name, but the word sits on my tongue like glass. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to wake her if she’s sleeping. Truth is, I don’t know if she’ll answer, and that’s heavier than silence.
The living room looks untouched, blankets folded neatly over the back of the couch, her book stacked on the coffee table. A glass with a ring of water at the bottom. Like she’s been here, waiting. Like she’s still here. My chest aches at the thought, and I drop my bag by the door even though there’s nothing in it but the pretense of a normal day.
I make my way toward the bedroom, but halfway down the hall I hear her voice.
“You’re late again.”
It’s not sharp. It’s not soft, either. Just steady, like she’s been rehearsing it. I freeze, then turn my head. She’s sitting on the edge of the couch now—I swear she wasn’t there a second ago, like she slipped into place just to catch me off guard. Her arms are crossed, knees drawn in slightly, and she looks at me with those eyes that see more than I ever want her to.
“I told you I had work,” I say before I can stop myself. The lie tastes stale.
Her eyebrow arches, slow and deliberate. “You haven’t been to work in weeks.”
Something twists in my gut, shame mixed with irritation. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” she says, voice even. “I called.”
The words hit harder than I expect, and I almost flinch. She doesn’t raise her voice, doesn’t look angry. Somehow that makes it worse.
I run a hand through my hair, shrug like it might make me smaller. “Okay. So maybe I haven’t been there. I needed time. That’s all.”
“Time for what?” she asks. Her voice cracks a little at the edges now. “Time to disappear? Time to lie to me every night?”
I want to tell her no, that she’s wrong, but the words don’t come out. Instead, I walk past her, heading toward the bedroom because I need somewhere to sit, somewhere to pretend this doesn’t feel like drowning. She follows, footsteps soft but insistent.
When I sit on the bed, the mattress dips under me like it remembers her weight better than mine. She lingers in the doorway, arms still crossed, but I can feel the heat of her eyes on me.
“You smell like smoke,” she says.
I glance at her, caught. “So what?”
“So you promised,” she whispers, and I hate the way the word digs into me, the way it makes me feel like a boy again, caught doing something I swore I’d never do.
I press my hands to my knees, stare at the floor. “I didn’t… it’s not what you think.”
She laughs, but there’s no joy in it, only disbelief. “It’s always not what I think. But it always ends up being exactly what I think.”
Her voice breaks then, and I can’t stand it. I look up at her, at the way her shoulders are tense but her eyes are wet, and I feel something inside me soften against my will.
“Come here,” I say quietly.
She hesitates, her mouth tightening. “Why?”
“Because I’m asking,” I say, and my voice cracks more than I mean it to.
For a moment, I don’t think she will. But then she steps forward, slow, careful, like the floor might give way beneath her. She sits down beside me, leaving just enough space between us to feel like a canyon. I turn to her, studying her profile, the way she looks everywhere but at me.
“I don’t want to fight tonight,” I tell her, almost a whisper.
“Neither do I,” she says, and the words fall heavy between us.
I reach for her hand before I can think better of it. Her fingers twitch, like she wants to pull away, but she doesn’t. Her skin is warm, grounding, and I hold on maybe a little too tightly.
“I mess up,” I admit. The words scrape my throat. “I know that. I know I keep messing up. But I don’t…” I swallow hard. “I don’t mean to hurt you.”
She finally looks at me then, eyes sharp and wet all at once. “But you do.”
I nod, because I can’t argue. “I know.”
The silence that follows is heavy, but it isn’t empty. It’s filled with the sound of her breathing, the weight of everything we’re not saying. I let it stretch, let it sit between us until I can’t take it anymore.
“I miss us,” I say. The confession feels too bare. “When it wasn’t… this.”
Her lips tremble, and she looks away. “I do too.”
That’s all it takes to undo me. I shift closer, closing the space she left between us, and when my arm brushes hers, she doesn’t move. My hand slides to her thigh, gentle, tentative, and she exhales like she’s been holding her breath all night.
“This doesn’t fix it,” she murmurs, even as she leans into me.
“I know,” I whisper. “But maybe it’s enough for now.”
Her head tilts against my shoulder, and the ache in my chest eases for the first time in days. I close my eyes, press a kiss to her hair, breathe her in like she’s the only thing keeping me tethered. And maybe she is.
We sit like that for what feels like forever, neither of us speaking, the quiet finally something softer, something almost safe. My hand stays on her thigh, her fingers eventually intertwining with mine. I don’t know if she forgives me. I don’t know if I deserve it. But for this moment, she hasn’t let go. And that’s more than I thought I’d get tonight.
Her head stays against my shoulder longer than I expect. I can feel her breathing even out, the rise and fall soft against me, and for a second it almost feels like nothing’s wrong. Like we’re just two people who got tired at the same time and collapsed into each other. But I know better. My body knows better, stiff under the weight of guilt I can’t shake.
I let my hand slip lower on her thigh, slow enough to see if she’ll stop me. She doesn’t. Her fingers curl around mine tighter, and when I look down at her, she’s staring at the floor, jaw tense, like she’s caught between leaning in and pulling away.
“Talk to me,” I say, my voice quiet. It doesn’t sound like a demand—it sounds like begging.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You always know,” I push, softer than before. “Even when I don’t want to hear it.”
That makes her look up at me, sharp, and I regret it immediately. “What’s the point?” she asks. “You’ll just pretend it’s not true. You always do.”
Her words land like a slap, but I don’t move. I keep my eyes on hers, let her see that I’m not hiding this time. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending.”
“Then stop,” she says, and there’s a tremor in her voice, a plea under the anger. “Stop lying to me. Stop lying to yourself.”
I want to tell her I can, that I will, but the truth sits heavy on my tongue. All I can manage is: “I’m trying.”
Her laugh is broken glass. “Trying doesn’t stop the smell of smoke on your clothes.”
I flinch. She notices. Her expression softens, just barely, like she didn’t mean to cut so deep. But maybe I deserved it.
She sighs and leans back, breaking our closeness, putting air between us again. My chest aches at the distance. “Why do you always do this, Frank? Why do you always come home late, look at me like this, touch me like it’s the last time, and expect me to forget everything else?”
“I don’t expect you to forget,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “I just… I need you to remember, too.”
“Remember what?” she demands.
“That I love you.”
The words hang there, raw and too simple, and I can see them crash into her like waves she wasn’t ready for. She blinks, her lips parting, but no sound comes out. For a second, I think she’s going to cry again. Instead, she exhales, a shaky sound, and pushes her hair behind her ear.
“You can’t keep using that like it’s enough,” she whispers. “Love doesn’t erase this.”
“I know,” I murmur. My throat feels tight. “But it’s all I’ve got left.”
We sit in silence again, but it’s different now—thicker, heavier, like the air itself doesn’t know how to move around us. She doesn’t take her hand out of mine, though, and that small fact feels like salvation.
I brush my thumb over her knuckles, slow, careful. “Do you want me to leave?”
Her head snaps toward me. “What?”
“If that’s what you need. If me being here just makes it worse…” I swallow. “Say the word, and I’ll go.”
Her eyes widen, a flash of panic breaking through all the walls she’s built. “Don’t.”
The force in her voice knocks the wind out of me. I blink at her. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t leave.” Her fingers clutch mine so tightly it almost hurts. Her lip trembles. “If you leave, I’ll—” She stops herself, biting down hard on the rest.
I squeeze her hand. “You’ll what?”
She shakes her head, eyes shutting tight. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” I say softly. “It always matters.”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she leans into me again, pressing her forehead to my shoulder, and I feel the weight of her there, heavy and desperate. My arm goes around her automatically, pulling her closer, holding her like I can keep her from unraveling if I just don’t let go.
“I hate this,” she whispers.
“Me too.”
“I hate you sometimes.”
“Me too,” I admit, and the honesty makes her breath hitch. “But I never stop loving you.”
Her body shudders, a sound caught between a laugh and a sob escaping her throat. “You’re so fucking confusing.”
“I know.”
Her hand slides up my chest then, tentative, almost testing me. I freeze, unsure if I should push her back or pull her closer, but when her fingers curl against the fabric of my shirt, I can’t resist. I tilt my head down, press my lips to her temple. She doesn’t move away.
It’s not forgiveness. It’s not even peace. It’s something messier, something fragile, but it’s enough to keep us here, pressed together in the quiet.
And for a little while, neither of us speaks again.
She rests her head on my shoulder again, this time moving even slower, almost imperceptibly, like she’s testing whether I’ll pull away. I don’t. I let her. The room feels smaller somehow, more contained, wrapped around us like a bubble that keeps the rest of the world out.
I watch her hand, still holding mine loosely, the fingers twitching against mine like they’re remembering something they shouldn’t. I trace her knuckles with my thumb, careful not to press too hard, careful not to startle her. She exhales softly, a barely-there sound, and I know it’s her trying to hold herself together, trying not to let the tension spill.
“You’re quiet,” I murmur, mostly to fill the air, mostly because I can’t stand silence that weighs so heavily.
“I’m just… thinking,” she says, her voice low and even, though I hear the edges fraying.
“About?” I ask, though I already know.
She doesn’t answer right away. I can feel her pulling slightly, just enough that her weight on me shifts, but she doesn’t leave. “Everything,” she finally says, almost a whisper.
I nod, letting the word settle between us. “Yeah,” I say. “Everything’s a lot sometimes.”
She shifts again, tilting her head back slightly so her eyes catch the lamplight. I can see the tension there—the tightness in her jaw, the faint trembling of her lips. “Do you even notice?” she asks softly, almost rhetorically. “Do you notice how much… how heavy it gets for me?”
I squeeze her hand, careful. “I notice,” I say. “I notice every second you feel like this, even if I don’t know how to fix it.”
Her head tilts against me again, and she hums a little, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound. I wonder what she’s thinking, whether she’s replaying all the nights I’ve left her alone, all the times I’ve pretended to be somewhere I wasn’t. And I hate myself a little for it.
“You smell different tonight,” she murmurs suddenly.
I freeze, blinking down at her. “Different?”
“Yeah,” she says, tracing the curve of my shoulder lightly. “Like… something you’re not saying.”
I shrug, pretending it’s nothing, though my stomach knots. “Just tired,” I offer. It’s vague. It’s true enough. “And maybe a little distracted.”
Her lips press together, and I feel her hand tense on mine. “Distracted by what?”
I glance at her, trying to soften the look. “By you,” I say, and the words feel ridiculous even as I speak them. She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t pull away either.
We stay like that for a long stretch, just breathing in the same space, the quiet settling over us like a blanket. Every little noise—the hum of the fridge, the faint creak of the building settling—feels magnified. And every so often, her shoulder presses a fraction closer, her hand slides another hair behind her ear, her foot brushes mine, all without a word.
“You always know how to make it… lighter,” she murmurs eventually, not looking at me, eyes focused on nothing in particular.
“I try,” I whisper. “I really do.”
She huffs softly. “You try too much sometimes.”
“Better than not trying at all,” I answer, and the words hang there, soft but firm. She doesn’t respond at first, and that silence is heavy, but not uncomfortable. It’s the kind that makes every small movement feel like a statement.
Her hand slides along mine again, fingers brushing over the tops of mine lightly. I tighten my grip just a fraction, and she doesn’t move. I lean back slightly, letting my shoulder press into hers, feeling her settle against me.
“I hate that I can’t stop worrying about you,” she admits softly.
I press a kiss to the top of her head, careful, deliberate. “And I hate that you have to,” I say. “But maybe we just… have to keep holding on anyway.”
Her fingers tighten on mine, and she exhales slowly, leaning her weight into me more. “You make it hard to stay mad,” she says, almost laughing, almost crying.
“I know,” I whisper, and it’s not pride—it’s acknowledgment. I let her rest there, holding her like this, feeling the faint tremor in her body even as she tries to still it. Every inhale, every slight shift, every quiet hum of breath becomes its own language between us.
Minutes pass—or maybe it’s hours—I don’t check. I just let us exist like this. The weight of the night presses in, the faint smell of smoke clinging to my clothes, the faint taste of guilt, the faint warmth of her body. It’s bittersweet, all of it, and I wouldn’t trade a second of it, even knowing what’s coming next, even knowing the quiet won’t last.
She tilts her head back again, pressing her temple to mine. “Promise me something?” she whispers.
“What?” I ask, though I can guess.
“Promise me you’ll try… really try,” she murmurs, and the words feel heavy but fragile.
I nod. “I promise,” I say, even though I can’t guarantee much. It’s all I can do, and I hope she knows that.
She presses closer, and I can feel every breath, every heartbeat, every small movement. The room is still dim, the lights soft, the air thick with all the things we don’t say. And for now, that’s enough.
Her hand slips from mine before I even notice it. I glance down and see her standing, hesitating, like she’s decided something and doesn’t want me to know.
“Where are you going?” I ask, my voice quieter than I mean it to be.
She doesn’t answer right away, just walks down the hall toward the bathroom. My chest tightens. I want to follow, want to grab her hand again, want to stop whatever she’s doing, but I freeze in place. My boots press into the carpet like anchors.
I hear the bathroom door click closed behind her, the faint scrape of the tile floor against her feet. She doesn’t slam it, doesn’t yell, but the sound hits me harder than it should. My fingers curl into fists, knuckles white.
I rise slowly, stepping toward the door. “Hey,” I say, voice low, careful. “Talk to me.”
Silence.
I press my ear to the door. The faintest sound—metal scraping against something—catches my attention, and my stomach drops. I shouldn’t know. I shouldn’t recognize it. But I do.
“Stop,” I whisper through the door, more to myself than to her.
Nothing.
My hand goes to the doorknob, but I hesitate. I know I can’t barge in. I can’t force her to stop. She has to choose it herself. The knowledge twists in me, sharp and hot, a mix of helplessness and anger I can’t untangle.
“Please,” I murmur, barely audible, “please don’t.”
I hear her breath then, shaky and uneven, and it splits my chest in two. Every rational thought evaporates. My pulse is loud in my ears.
I lean against the door, my shoulder pressing into the wood, feeling the vibrations of her movements on the other side. She’s trying to be quiet, careful, precise—but I can hear the betrayal of every small sound. Every small slip.
I press my palm flat against the door, thumb brushing the keyhole as if I could touch her through the barrier. “I’m right here,” I say softly, voice catching. “I’m not leaving. I’m right here.”
Silence again.
I pace a small circle in the hallway, boots barely making a sound. My head spins with the things I want to yell and the things I can’t. I’m frustrated at her. I’m terrified. I’m furious at myself. And underneath it all, I’m aching. Aching to reach through the door and pull her out, to cradle her and never let her do this alone again.
The scrape comes again, quicker this time, and my fists clench. I press my forehead to the door. My chest feels hollow.
“Talk to me,” I whisper. “Say something.”
Finally, a small sound—a catch in her breath, almost imperceptible, but enough. Enough for me to know.
I press my ear again, wishing it could be different, wishing the sound wouldn’t exist in my ears or my head. But it does. And it’s her. And it’s my fault in some way I can’t articulate.
I press my hand harder to the door, fingers trembling. “I see you,” I murmur. “I hear you. You’re not alone, I promise you, not now.”
Silence falls again, thick and almost unbearable. I stay there, leaning, breathing, listening, feeling every second stretch like taffy between us. My mind runs through every way I could reach her, every way I could make this better. And still, I know it’s a moment she has to face alone.
Finally, a soft click—the faucet running. I hear water trickle, feel the air shift as she moves in there, cleaning herself up, trying to pretend it didn’t happen. I stay by the door, waiting, not knowing if I should speak, not knowing if she wants me to.
“Come out when you’re ready,” I murmur. “I won’t say anything. I’m right here.”
The minutes crawl, every tick of the clock loud in my head, until finally the water stops. I hear the slow shuffle of her feet against the tile, the click of the door unlocking. She emerges, hair damp, eyes downcast, shoulders tense.
She doesn’t look at me at first. I can feel the tremor in her, even from the corner of the room. She keeps her hands folded in front of her, gripping herself like a shield.
I don’t move toward her. I can’t. I let her come to me, let her decide if she wants the comfort, if she wants the quiet.
When she finally slides back onto the bed beside me, I wrap an arm around her without a word. Her head falls against my chest again. She’s shaking, but not from the cold. Not just.
I don’t speak. I let the room hold the weight of what happened, let her breathe into me, let myself feel everything at once—the relief that she’s here, the terror of what just happened, the ache that nothing can fix this fully.
“Don’t… don’t leave,” she whispers after a long time.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmur, pressing my lips to her hair. “I’m right here. I’m not leaving.”
We sit like that, letting the silence stretch, letting the night close in around us, every small breath and tiny movement heavy with meaning.
Even now, I know nothing is fixed. Nothing is solved. But she’s here. She’s breathing. She hasn’t gone completely.
And for tonight, that’s enough.