It started with something small. It always did. This time it was about his phone how you found texts left unanswered, plans forgotten, messages that could’ve been solved with two seconds of his time. But the fight wasn’t about the phone, not really. It never was about the surface level thing. It was about the thousand times before, about all the little cuts that never quite healed. “You don’t even care enough to answer me back,” you said, voice shaking, pacing across the room. Mark leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. ”You’re exaggerating.” “Exaggerating? Mark, it’s the same conversation we’ve had a hundred times. You disappear into your own head, your work, your bullshit, and I’m just supposed to sit here waiting.” His mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “Oh, right, because you’re perfect. You don’t snap at me, you don’t pull away when it suits you. Don’t act like this is all on me.” You froze, heat rushing to your chest. “God, you’re impossible.” The room felt like it was vibrating, the tension building, old arguments bleeding into new ones until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. He raked a hand through his hair, wild eyed, while you stood there fighting the urge to cry. “Maybe we’re just… wrong,” you whispered finally. “Maybe this isn’t supposed to work.” That made him snap his head up, eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare.” “What?” “Don’t you dare talk like you’re walking away.” His voice cracked, desperation bleeding through the anger. “You don’t mean it.” “Maybe I do,” you shot back, though your voice wavered. And in that split second, you almost believed yourself. He crossed the space between you, hands gripping your face, eyes searching yours with something raw and broken. “Don’t. Please. I can’t-” His forehead pressed against yours, the fight dissolving into a ragged plea. “I’m sorry. I screw it up, I know I do, but I love you. I love you so much it makes me crazy.” Your breath hitched. You wanted to shove him away, to hold on to the anger, but his words cracked something inside you. You hated how easily he could undo you, how quickly your fury melted under the weight of his desperation. “Mark…” He kissed you before you could finish, all teeth and urgency, the kind of kiss that was half apology, half addiction. You kissed him back, because you always did. Later, tangled in sheets, sweat still clinging to your skin. He laid on his side, eyes tracing your face like he was memorizing it. “I love you,” he whispered, softer now. You swallowed hard, brushing your fingers against his chest. “We can’t keep doing this.” He nodded, but you both knew he didn’t mean it. Neither of you did. Tomorrow there’d be another fight, another “I’m sorry,” another desperate attempt to hold on when you should probably let go.