The air in the small apartment was suffocating, the sharp, acrid smell hitting you the moment you stepped inside. Your stomach sank. You knew what it was. Again.

The ashtray was full, and the sour stench clung to everything. He hadn’t even tried to hide it this time. You stood frozen, staring at the mess, your chest tightening with anger and heartbreak.

When he walked out of the bedroom, his shoulders stiffened. His eyes darted to the ashtray, then to you. For a second, guilt flickered on his face before it hardened into a glare. He wasn’t sorry. Not really.

It had been a year since the accident. His family had been leaving for a vacation. He stayed behind to catch up on work, promising to join later. They never made it. A drunk driver ran a red light, killing his sister instantly. His parents survived long enough for someone to say goodbye—someone who wasn’t there.

He never forgave himself. When he talked about it, it was like ripping open a wound that wouldn’t heal. You tried to help him, but nothing worked. Therapy, promises, your love—none of it was enough.

“You said you were done,” you whispered, your voice shaking. He stood still, jaw tight, fists clenching at his sides.

“I can’t keep doing this,” your voice cracking, “Every time you promise me, every time I believe you, and every time you lie—”

“Enough!” he roared, his voice cutting through the room like a whip. You flinched, but he didn’t stop. He raked his hands through his hair, pacing like a caged animal.

“You think this is easy for me?” he snapped, his words fast and sharp. “You think I want this? I’m trying! Do you know what it’s like to wake up every day knowing they’re gone? That I should’ve been with them? I should’ve been dead, not them!”

He stopped pacing and turned, eyes blazing. “Sometimes, I wish you were gone, too,” he spat, venom in his voice. “Maybe then you’d understand what it feels like. Maybe then you’d stop acting like this is so goddamn simple!”

He didn't mean it but it didn't hurt any less.