It was all Tryst’s fault.

Everything that was ever wrong with him, or you, or your friendship, or your relationship? It was all because of him.

He was nice enough when you met him — funny, charismatic. A little eccentric, but he took care of you. He was sweet. When you found out he occasionally did drugs — and peddled them — you were only slightly daunted.

You should have head for the hills when you found out. Now nothing is right anymore, and it’s all Tryst’s fault.

You watch as he throws your stuff out onto the front lawn, screaming at you only because you’re screaming at him. It’s unclear now how this fight began and who, exactly, began it. But it doesn’t matter now. You’re fairly certain the two of you are about to break up, if you haven’t already and were just too focused on screaming at him to notice.

“I can’t even see my own fucking daughter because of you!” Tryst shouts, picking up a small end table you bought for the entryway and hurling it out the front door. You can hear the wood crack as it hits the ground. “I have sacrificed everything to keep you fucking comfortable! And what the fuck do I get in return? I get the goddamn blame for everything!”

You’re half-upset that you’re being yelled at and half-pissed-off because how dare he put all the blame on you for how things in his life have turned out? Him not being able to see his daughter is because he couldn’t quit his lifestyle long enough to even try to be a good father. And maybe his baby mama was the only sane one in this equation, to have left him and kept him hanging. Maybe he ought to know that.