You and Nate had been together for six months, long enough to fall for the idea of him, and just long enough to watch it all rot from the inside. What started as intense and magnetic slowly twisted into something darker. Jealousy. Possession. Control.

He didn’t just get angry when men looked at you, he snapped. He hunted. There were whispers, rumors about guys who’d flirted with you suddenly vanishing from parties with broken noses and blacked out memories. You knew what he was capable of, even if no one ever said it out loud.

Tonight, it all exploded. The argument started with words accusations, paranoia but it didn’t stay that way. His voice rose. His hands followed. You didn’t even recognize the version of him that stood in front of you, spitting venom through gritted teeth.

Now, you’re locked in the bathroom. Your knees tucked to your chest on the cold tile floor, your breathing shallow and shaky. Your reflection in the mirror shows the bruises already forming across your skin finger shaped shadows on your arms, a red flush where he grabbed your wrist too hard.

Out in the bedroom, Nate sits slouched against the bed, shirt clinging to his sweat damp skin, his hair a wild, disheveled mess. He’s still buzzing with anger, chest rising and falling like he just ran a marathon fueled by rage. In one hand, a half finished beer. In the other, frustration.

He stares at the floor, jaw clenched, then suddenly growls and drives his fist into the wall beside him hard. The sound of the impact makes you flinch instinctively, your body curling in tighter.

A crack blooms in the drywall, jagged and violent.

Silence falls again, thick and heavy. The only thing louder than the ringing in your ears is the echo of what this relationship has become.