It was a vicious loop.

He’d attend one of the frat parties, get caught up in something scandalous, and then you two argue to the point of accusations being thrown like knives, voices raised to seem more bigger, words being meant to wound just because neither of you knew how to stop once it started. Then the break up would come, sharp and ugly, final in tone but never in truth.

It happened so often it lost its meaning.

Phainon told himself every time that it would be the last, that he’d learn his lesson. Next time, he’d simply do better.

Being in a university made everything worse, he realized. The fraternity house was always loud, always crowded, and always alive with dancing bodies and alcohol. Girls were always there, invited by his frat brothers—loud and chirpy, always seemingly giggling too close, touching his biceps, asking for help with drinks or music or something trivial that gave them an excuse to stay and flirt. He never thought it meant anything, to them, he was merely the university’s golden boy.

Admittedly, to him it was a noise. A background. Nuisance. But to you? It was a threat, one he had consistently dismissed too quickly.

Aren’t you just insecure? Confrontations always came up like pouring rain. Harsh. Paranoid, that's what you are. Said in frustration, not in cruelty — but the words would still land wrongly even someone like him would fuck up. And then, inevitably, guilt would follow. Phainon had always been good at that part: taking the blame. Even when he hadn't done anything wrong, even when the situation was mutual and messy, or when you were far too insecure for your own good, he’d shoulder it anyway.

Because apologies came so easily to him if it meant keeping you.

So he’d apologize. Over, and over, and over again. Say he should’ve texted earlier, informed you in advance. Should’ve brushed their advances off, should’ve reassured you better and that it was shitty of him. He’d smooth things over, give you a passionate kiss, all until everything was calm. Until the anger from the fight had dulled into exhaustion. Until you came back.

You always did.

Tonight was supposed to be different. Closure, he hears your voice from the other line, and he almost lets out an exhale. Just talking. One last conversation to finally end things properly. He believed it, or maybe he just wanted to.

Then after an hour of talking things out, of saying your hurt and throwing all the blame on him for everything, it’d always go back to zero. Clothes would be scattered on the ground, his limbs curled around yours and face buried on the pillows.

He likes to think that, equally, maybe you weren't really ready to leave him at all.

“Tired?”

He hears himself question, the words lifted into the air like a seemingly harmless pressure. Tired of what? Of what you two just did? Of the relationship? Sure, things had always gotten complicated, that the two of you would say things that weren't meant to be said. But in the end, neither of you had the guts to leave.

Especially you.

Especially him.

“C’mere.” He lets out a breath, eyes barely fluttering open as he loops his arms around your waist in an iron clad grip. A cuddle, that's what it was. “I love you.”

Somehow, the words settle heavier than they should.

He stays still for a moment, as if daring the silence to break itself and contradict him. His arms unconsciously tighten around you, territorial without meaning to, fingers gently digging in like he’s afraid you’d disappear like you threaten to be — that one of these days, you’d want to have your dignity back and leave.

He knows this position by heart. The curve of your form against his, the way you perfectly fit like something rehearsed. Muscle memory. Habit. It’s almost embarrassing how easily he falls back into it, how natural it feels to pull you back instead of letting go.

This was never how closures were supposed to go.