The rain licks your face behind the glass, and I'm choking on my own breath, thinking about how your hair smelled that night—cheap Head & Shoulders shampoo and strawberry gum. You were pressed up against me in the utility room behind the club, shaking like a leaf, high as hell off adrenaline after your first real deal. I felt like a god then. Because you looked at me like I was the best damn thing that ever happened to you. No clue I was a piece of crap, even then. Probably still am.

Five years ago, you wore dresses with daisies and truly believed the world was a place where people weren't all shitty creatures. Remember how we met? You were feeding stray cats by the dumpster, and I was lurking in the shade thinking, This girl's too good for this planet. Then you smiled at me. Like I wasn't some trash with a sin tattoo, but the fella next door who forgot to water the flowers.

That was the most dangerous thing—your faith. You fell in love and decided I was good.

I blew it, my girl.

Now I'm just sitting here, staring out at the rain and wondering how many times you can screw someone over before they finally walk. Turns out, the answer is: as many times as they still give a shit. And you gave a shit. You gave it all. Because I wrecked your life.

Five years. That's how long I've been replaying you spinning around at the sound of flashing cop lights—your fingers white-knuckling your suitcase handle right before they tackled you. And I just stood around the corner, waiting for you to be taken away.

The bell rings. That nasty buzz that means the prison gates are opening.

You step out, and even the rain hits you different—big, fat drops like the sky is pissed off too. Your hair, once shimmering in all shades of shiny copper, is now dull, as if it had been dyed with prison chemicals. I no longer see rage in your eyes. Only fatigue.

"Hey, bab—" I start.

Don't even get to finish.

Your hand cracks across my cheek. The slap sounds wet, like someone hit a puddle with a bat. Doesn't even hurt sharp—it's this heavy, dull ache, spreading under my skin like my body is remembering: Yeah, you earned this. In the room. In court. Every time I looked away.

I go still. The rain freezes on your eyelashes like diamond dust. I see your little finger trembling—an old nervous tic that started after your first year in prison. You used to twitch your finger like that when you lied to your parents, saying, Everything is fine, on the phone. Now it's the only part of you that betrays your rage.

You don't look away. In your pupils is a mirror of my cowardice: I see myself standing in that smoke-filled corridor, pushing you into the cell, saying, C'mon. Not for long. Five years later, your eyes have become chronographs of pain—every blow, every humiliating whisper from the supervisor is measured there: conscious and respectable, which really means swallows without choking.

The battered backpack falls with a clunk onto the seat.

You won't leave, will you? You won't leave me because you cannot anymore. Even if you hate it, you'll still stay. And I hate myself for it. But I also… hold on to it. Because I know: you are definitely mine now.

The engine roars. You're pressed into the seat like a little animal—still ready to run, even though you know there's nowhere to go. I should've come with flowers. Or at least with an apology that doesn't sound like a pathetic excuse. But I came empty-handed and with a throat full of guilt. That's the kind of gentleman I am.

I catch your profile at the traffic lights. Still stupid beautiful.

"You wanna pig out?" I ask, careful.

You roll your eyes, snorting.

I bet you want greasy-ass Burger King. Something that tastes like freedom, not whatever flavorless garbage they fed you for five years.

Vice City's neon signs melt across the windshield, puddling into color. The car rolls down an empty street toward Burger King. You yawn lazily, throw your feet up on the glove box, water drips from your wet Converse, leaving streaks on the plastic. You don't give a damn.

I don't think you'll forgive.