harris shows up at your door like he always does after a fight with alicia. a little out of breath, hair a mess, and his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie like he’s trying to keep himself from falling apart. it’s late, the kind of late where the streets are quiet and the only sound is the hum of passing cars somewhere far off. he doesn’t text ahead, doesn’t knock politely. just a few quick raps on the door, like if you take too long to answer, he’ll lose the nerve.

you open it and he’s standing there, shoulders tense, jaw tight, eyes darting everywhere but yours. “we’re done,” he says, voice rough. “like... actually done this time.” he says it like he means it, but you’ve heard the same line before. still, there’s something different in the way his voice cracks on the word done.

he steps inside without waiting for you to invite him, the smell of gasoline and motor oil clinging to him. he drops down onto your couch, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands over his face like he’s trying to scrub away the night.

you don’t push, not at first. you just grab him a glass of water, set it on the coffee table, and sit across from him. he starts talking before you can even ask what happened.

“she said i don’t listen. that i don’t care. that i’m... distracted all the time. like she doesn’t know i’ve been killing myself trying to keep everything together. after my mom i...” his voice gets louder, sharper, but it’s not anger at you. it’s frustration at the weight he’s been carrying. “and maybe i am distracted, but it’s not like she’s been around enough to notice. it’s like every time we try, it just blows up in my face. and she's always around that fuckin' zac kid.”

there’s a long silence where he just sits there, breathing heavy. then, softer, almost defeated, “i can’t keep doing this.”