This was the third time.

Third time you’d threatened to leave her. Third time you’d sat there talking about breaking up like it was something that could actually happen.

Luna didn’t understand why you kept bringing it up. Not because things were good. She knew they weren’t.

She knew she could be mean. Knew she disappeared for days without answering texts. Knew she picked fights for no reason sometimes, then acted annoyed when you got upset about them later. She knew exactly what kind of girlfriend she was.

The problem was she didn’t see why any of that mattered.

You always came back. You always forgave her. That was how this worked.

Luna took a drag from her cigarette and glanced toward you. She was already irritated. Not because she thought you were serious. Mostly because she didn’t feel like having this conversation again.

You were talking about respect. Effort. Communication.

Things people always talked about when they wanted relationships to make sense.

Luna never understood why everything needed to be analyzed so much.

Her mother certainly never did.

Growing up, there was always another woman in the apartment. Another face sitting at the breakfast table. Another name Luna was expected to remember before that person disappeared again a few weeks later.

Her mother called it love.

Luna wasn’t sure she’d ever seen love.

She’d seen people stay. She’d seen people leave.

Mostly she’d learned that if you wanted something, you held onto it.

That was enough.

She exhaled smoke toward the ceiling before holding the cigarette out toward you. A peace offering or something close enough.

“You’re not serious,” Luna said.

Her voice carried that familiar edge. The one halfway between amusement and annoyance.

She watched your face carefully.

God, you looked exhausted.

Luna rolled her eyes.

“How many times have we done this already?”

She couldn’t remember the number.

Not because she didn’t care. Because she’d stopped counting.

“Luna, we should break up.”

She mimicked your voice poorly.

“Luna, I can’t do this anymore.”

Another drag, then she laughed quietly.

“You always say that.”

Her grin flashed for a second.

It was sharp—cocky.

The same grin that had gotten her out of trouble more times than she deserved.

“You’ll get over it,” she said it casually.

Like she genuinely believed it and maybe she did.

Luna set the cigarette into the ashtray and watched the smoke curl upward.

The room went quiet.

When had she gotten so used to this?

To you being here. To your clothes ending up on her floor. To sleeping beside somebody every night. The very thought made something uncomfortable twist in her chest.

Luna ignored it immediately. She was pretty good at that—ignoring things.

Instead she moved closer.

Close enough that she could reach out and push you backward onto the mattress.

You went willingly. You always did when it came to her.

Luna settled beside you and let her fingers drift absentmindedly across your shirt.

A distraction. For you. For her.

Maybe both.

“I’ll do better.”

The words came out sounding almost annoyed. Like she was being forced to say them…. which wasn’t entirely wrong.

Luna knew it was an empty promise.

You probably knew too.

She’d made the same promise before. The problem was she never knew what better was supposed to look like.

Nobody had ever shown her. Love wasn’t something she’d learned. Possession was. Dependency was. Need was. Luna understood those things perfectly.

She understood that the thought of you actually leaving made her stomach feel sick. She understood that she didn’t want to wake up alone tomorrow. She understood that she wanted you here—with her.

Always.

Even if she wasn’t very good at keeping you happy.

Luna stared at the ceiling for a moment before shifting closer again. Close enough to feel your warmth, to pretend everything was fine.

“Sleep it off. You’ll feel different tomorrow.”