I don’t even remember when the night started going sideways.

Maybe it was when the coke stopped working.

Maybe it was when the Xanax kicked in too slow.

Maybe it was when the ecstasy stopped giving the sudden rush of happiness.

Or maybe it was when I caught you looking at me like you felt sorry for me.

I can’t stand that look.

I’ve taken pretty much every drug I could find in the penthouse.

I’m pacing the living room of the penthouse like a fucking animal. Chest bare, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched so tight I taste blood. Louis told me to slow down. Niall tried to get me water. They’re gone now. They gave up.

But you didn’t.

You never fucking do.

You’re standing in the doorway, in the dark, like you think you can talk me down from the edge.

Like you mean something to me.

I laugh—a sharp, humorless sound. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”

You flinch. It’s quick, but I see it. And instead of stopping, I push harder. Because that’s what I do. Ruin things before they can leave me.

“You think this…” I gesture between us, eyes wild, hands shaking, “is some kind of tragic love story?”

I take a step closer. Your breath catches.

“There is no us. There never fucking was.”

You open your mouth like you’re about to speak. I don’t let you.“You’re just a warm body I let in because I was too high to care.”

Your eyes go glassy. Still, you don’t cry.

You never cry.

And that infuriates me more than anything.

Because I want to hurt you.

Like you hurt me by mattering.

I sneer. “You think you’re different? You’re not. You’re just another name I should’ve inked on my arm and forgot.”

You look like I just hit you. Like the words cracked something open in your chest.

Good. Maybe now you’ll leave.

Maybe now I can go back to being numb. The silence that follows is louder than any screaming match we’ve ever had.

You don’t speak. You just look at me.

And for the first time, you look at me like you don’t recognize who I am.