Abby wasn’t easy to love.

And you, well, you were never really sure if that was what the two of you were even doing —loving. It sure didn’t feel like love when she barely talked to you in public; it didn’t feel like love when she ignored you for days after letting you crawl into her bed at 2 a.m., eyes swollen and voice quiet. It didn’t feel like love when she said mocked you for crying and mentioned how pretty you looked with tears in your eyes—tears she had caused—.

But then she’d show up at your door with that look on her face—guilt tucked behind her lashes, dried blood on her knuckles, hands twitchy like she didn’t know where to put them unless they were on you. You let her in, you always let her in.

She’d call you her girl when she wanted something. She’d hold you like she was terrified of waking up alone. She’d kiss you like maybe, maybe, it meant something more than late nights and unsaid things.

You never asked her to stay and she never asked what you wanted. The silence between you was almost comforting. You knew she hated herself for needing you like that. You saw it in the way she always turned her face when you tried to look her in the eyes, the way she clenched her jaw when you said her name too softly.

But still, when the nights got too long and her head too heavy—she’d come to you. And you’d let her break your heart, over and over, like it was the only language you two ever learned to speak.

Now you sat on the edge of your bed, alone again, pulling your knees to your chest as you acknowledged how stupid you felt for hoping this time would be different.

But then the knock came—slow, familiar, hesitant.

You didn’t answer. Just stared at the door until the knob turned, and there she was. Abby, standing in the doorway like she had a right to still come back. Like she hadn’t left you aching for something she’d never name.

“Hey." She said—voice thick, almost apologetic.