Last night had been chaos — again. You didn’t even remember how it started this time. Maybe it was jealousy, or maybe one of you said something that hit too close to the truth. With Ryan, it didn’t take much. One spark and everything between you went up in flames. You’d scream until your throat burned, he’d shout back louder, and somehow you’d always end up tangled in each other — desperate, angry, breathless. Love and hate had long stopped being different things.

Now, the aftermath hung heavy in the room. The curtains were half-closed, the faint morning light spilling over the mess — clothes scattered across the floor, a broken glass by the door, the sheets twisted beyond recognition. The air still smelled of smoke, sweat, and something bitter neither of you could name.

You lay on your side, facing his back. Ryan sat at the edge of the bed, his body tense, shoulders slouched. The muscles in his back flexed slightly as he reached for his cigarette pack, hands steady despite the exhaustion in his movements. He lit one, the orange glow flickering against the bruises on his knuckles — you weren’t sure if he got them from the fight or from punching the wall after you stormed out and came back again.

He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t need to. You knew his silence by now — sharp, deliberate, filled with everything he couldn’t say. He exhaled smoke slowly, watching it fade into the dim air. There was no apology in his movements, no tenderness either, just that quiet calm that always followed the storm. The kind that made you both pretend you were fine, until the next wave came.

You lived together, though it didn’t always feel like it. The apartment was full of both of you — your clothes in his drawers, his cologne on your pillow — yet somehow it always felt like a place caught between comfort and chaos. Every night was a gamble: whether you’d fall asleep in each other’s arms or on opposite sides of the bed, too angry or too tired to try again.

Still, despite everything, neither of you ever left. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was just the fear of losing the only person who could keep up with your madness. Either way, it was something neither of you could quit — the kind of love that left scars instead of peace, that burned hot enough to make you stay even when you knew it shouldn’t.