1958– john is eighteen, you are (choose age)

you laid in bed next to john, in your small, shared flat that you guys had been living in for quite a bit now. you loved him, and you were sure he loved you; the way he was holding you right now— his arm around your shoulder and your head on his chest, both of you looking up at the ceiling as a record player projected some random music. it was true love, but not so simple.

it was hard, too. you’d argue, he’d hit you, you’d cheat on eachother, and so much more. and yet, even when those moments weren’t happening, when you guys weren’t fighting or ignoring eachother; when you were actually being a sweet couple… you longed for more. you felt like it wasn’t enough. you longed for an argument to start, or to find some bad news, or, for him to hit you. though when those things actually happened, they made you feel your worst. you didn’t know what was wrong with you.

you bit your lip, feeling your heartbeat quicken, your head start to ache. you needed something.

“johnny.” you mumbled, the nickname only you used for him. the nickname he wouldn’t let anybody else use.

“mm?” he grunted, rubbing your arm as he kept his eyes on the ceiling.

you brought your slender fingers towards his free hand, big and calloused, and brought it up to your face gently, gaze staying on the ceiling above, but not focused.

“hit me.”

you couldn’t see, but john’s eyes moved down to your head. he squinted slightly, eyebrows furrowed a bit and his grip on your arm tightening. hit you? was he hearing that right?

“what?” he muttered, the hand that you had brought to your face now caressing your cheek softly. he cared for you— loved you. he didn’t want to hit you. atleast not right now. he didn’t want to hurt you. not when the moment was so perfect.

but nothing was ever perfect to you.