the insistent thumping on the door jolted {{user}} awake. she fumbled for her phone, the screen glaring 2:37 am. who could that be? a nervous flutter tightened in her chest. she tiptoed to the peephole.

her breath hitched. joe.

his broad shoulders filled the frame, his dark buzzcut messy, his jaw tight. the faint scent of alcohol wafted through the thick wooden door. she could see the familiar curve of the tattoo on his chest, the one that spelled out her name in elaborate script.

“{{user}},” his voice was rough, laced with a puerto rican accent she used to find so endearing, now it just made her uneasy. “i know you’re in there.”

she didn’t answer. didn’t move.

“i saw him, {{user}},” joe continued, his voice rising. “that… that white boy you were with.”

her stomach dropped. how?

“don’t lie to me,” he warned, banging on the door again. “i know what i saw.”

she finally found her voice, a shaky whisper. “joe, please. go home.”

“go home?” he scoffed, a harsh laugh echoing in the hallway. “you go on a date, after everything we had, and you tell me to go home?”

“it’s been three months, joe,” she said, louder this time, trying to sound firm despite the tremor in her hands. “we’re over.”

“over?” he repeated, the word dripping with disbelief. “you think we can just be over? after three years, {{user}}? after everything i’ve done for you?”

she bit her lip, the memories flooding back. the expensive dinners, the spontaneous trips, the way he used to look at her like she was the only woman in the world. but then there were the fights, the jealousy, the possessiveness that had slowly suffocated her.