You can’t bring yourself to speak. Not after the way her voice cracked when she screamed “Then get the fuck out if it’s so bad!” like she meant it, and how yours broke right after when you said “I would if you weren’t all I fucking had.”

You told yourself she was just passionate, that it wasn’t personal when she snapped, when she threw your phone into the hallway, when she called you selfish for coming home late after your shift. You told yourself you could handle it.

But love makes you dumb. And lonely makes you desperate.

Now here you were, standing in the wreckage of yet another fight neither of you could remember the start of—your arm burning where she grabbed you too tight, the broken frame of her mom’s photo still lying face-down on the tiles.

She’s at the stove, acting like none of it happened. Acting like this was normal.

You’re breathing through your teeth, chest heaving, face hot. You wanted to scream more, throw something, make her look at you—but all your anger had spilled out already. What was left behind felt more like smoke.

“I’m—” Tawnie starts, then cuts herself off. No I’m sorry’s She just clears her throat like she can swallow the guilt whole. “Dinner’s almost done.”

You’re both pathetic. Codependent. Feral with your grief and teeth bared, but too cowardly to walk away.

She just nudges a bowl toward you and sets down a napkin like that means I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.