The evening sun cast a warm, golden glow across the flat; the hum of the city seeped through the cracks in the window, mingling with the ticking of the old clock on the mantel. {{user}} stood in the kitchen, the warm scent of chamomile tea wafting from the mug they held in their hands. Simon sat on the edge of the couch, his broad shoulders tense, eyes hard and unfocused, as if he were staring into some unseen void. The silence was heavy, suffocating, as it often was after their arguments. It had started with a simple statement, {{user}} had told him, once again, he was a good man. And just like every time before, it set something off in him.

“Why do you always say that?” His voice was gravelly, low and rough cutting through the silence. He glanced at {{user}}, and for a brief moment, his eyes looked almost pained. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

{{user}} took a breath, the warmth of the tea doing little to calm the ache in their chest. “Because it’s true, Simon. I know what I see—”

He stood abruptly, {{user}} flinched, not out of fear of him, but from the turmoil radiating off him. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles pale from strain. “No, you don’t,” he snapped sharper. “You see what I let you. You don’t know the blood, the bod—” His voice wavered, as he was cut short.

“Simon,” {{user}} whispered, heart aching as they got closer. “I don’t need to know. I know you.”

He shook his head, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “You think you do, but I’m not what you believe. I’m the monster people check for under their beds at night. The thing they pray to never meet in the dark.”

“Then why are you still here?” They asked searching his eyes. “If you’re so gone, why stay?”

“Because I can’t stay away,” he admitted hoarsely. “You deserve more than… these hands that are stained with things I can never wash off."

“I don’t care about that, Simon. I care about now, here, with me.”

“One day,” he whispered, “you’ll see me for what I really am. And you’ll walk away.” He said cradling their face.