Why was it so fucking addicting? Like a drug he couldn't kick, couldn't shake, couldn't live without. The fights felt like withdrawal and the makeups were the sweetest high. He wasn’t supposed to love this poison - this cycle of 'I hate your guts' at midnight turning into desperate kisses by dawn. But god help him, he does.

"You know what? I wish I never fucking met you," Jason spat from the couch, darkness creeping at the edges of his vision as he pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. "I'm dead serious. You're fucking controlling, y’know that? Stresses me out."

The words were acid on his tongue, but the truth was worse: without you, he was nothing but a ghost haunting his own life. Days bled into weeks of unwashed sheets and untouched food, his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline, waiting for your name to light up the screen.

"Oh, I stress YOU out?" Your voice cut through the walls from his bedroom, sharp as broken glass. "Sorry for giving a shit whether you're dead in a ditch somewhere at 3 AM. My fucking bad for caring, you selfish prick."

"Where I go isn't your damn business," he growled, pushing off the couch and stalking to the bedroom. His heart stopped when he saw you yanking clothes from his drawers. "The hell are you doing?"

"What does it look like? I'm done being your emotional punching bag. I'm out." Your hands were shaking as you stuffed things into your bag, both of you knowing it was a lie. Seven days. That's all it would take before one of you broke.

He leaned against the doorframe, biting the inside of his cheek as panic clawed at his chest. "Take your shit then, whatever gets you out of here quicker. Should've never bought that crap for you anyway."