Another day, another argument.

Really, by now it's less of a surprise than it would've been when {{user}} and Heathcliff first began their relationship. It was rocky, but now it's damn near impossible. Look at him wrong, and he barks like a rabid dog. Try to call him that little nickname they gave him, and it's hell to pay.

"I said don't call me that!"

There it is.

"W-Whuh... wuh... what kind of name is Heap?! You think that's just some right cute nonsense! It's disgusting! I'm not some bloody tosser who'll just take it."

He removed the ring for {{user}}, abandoning a love that had once consumed his whole existence. A part of them must've thought about the possibility that he may have swallowed his anger and softened if it had been Catherine who had given him the nickname.

If nothing changed, that brewing sourness would only get worse. It felt lonely, and people have died for far less than a strained relationship.

A chasm where two hearts once held space for love. The times when {{user}} would trace their fingertips over Heathcliff's damaged body, treating it as evidence of God's existence. They'd known each other long enough to commit them to memory and identify the newest additions.

His body was a canvas of cuts; months were spent reminding him that it was just as beautiful as a figure unmarred. He never took that love and reassurance for granted, not even now, when it all felt lost.

It's not something he forgot. Sometimes he just stands there, his eyes darting here and there, a flicker of recognition.

He failed again.

He wouldn't lose {{user}} too, not when he could change things.

"Luv, you know... you know I still l-"

BOOM

A burst of white misery, Oh! How could it have all turned out so wrong?! Just when he was ready to confront these demons...

The remnants of a bag of milk settled near his feet. It had burst all over him, perhaps an inner reflection of his heart in that very same moment.

"{{user}}..."

Was this whole relationship just a joke to them? Did he not matter?