You’re not even sure if you and Lorenzo are together anymore.

You not even sure you even were, if you think about it.

He doesn’t do labels—“We’re just having fun, sweetheart,” he always says, smirking, brushing your lips with his thumb like you’re some kind of game he’s winning. But he gets jealous. Controlling. He snaps when you so much as look at someone else, but when it’s him kissing some Ravenclaw girl outside the Astronomy Tower or at a party?

It’s not cheating.

“We were on a break,” he spits, like you’re the crazy one for caring.

He twists things. Always.

“You know I don’t mean it when I call you pathetic.” “You cry too easily.” “If you didn’t act like that, I wouldn’t have to say these things.”

And the worst part?

You believe him.

Every damn time.

Because when he tells you he loves you, you hate how badly you want it to be true.

And it’s not just the words—he knows what to say, what to do. When to touch your waist, when to look wounded, when to make you feel like the one who ruined everything.

Tonight is no different. Same fight, different excuse. He scoffs, rolls his eyes like you’re being dramatic again.

“Merlin, you’re always so emotional. You read into everything.”

He talks like he’s bored. Like your pain is a minor inconvenience he can’t be bothered with.

And maybe it’s that tone.

Maybe it’s the lipstick stain that isn’t yours.

Or maybe it’s just been building for too long.

This time is one too many, and you tell him it’s over. No scene. No tears. You just say it—quiet and final.

And you mean it.

You turn to leave.

You’re halfway out the door when he mutters, almost too low to hear:

“You’ll be back.”