It was like a fucking book. Yeah, exactly like a book. One of those cheap dramas written by a woman who’s been through too much shit to keep quiet anymore.

Screaming. Moaning. Cops. Shattered glass. ’You’re a bitch.’ ‘So are you.’

You broke up a thousand times. Then got back together. Then tore each other apart again.

Your own private hell. Like two junkies, fully aware this shit will kill them - but lighting another hit anyway.

But the last time…That was the last time. The final nail. The kind of fight people in other cities probably fucking heard.

Time passed. A lot of it. You didn’t check on him. He didn’t check on you. You didn’t care. Well…almost.

Sometimes you’d scroll through his socials. Never liked a thing. Just stared. Sometimes with shaking hands. Sometimes with disgust that curdled fast into rage.

He looked happy. Publicly. Almost too happy. He’s getting married soon. Posting mushy-ass photos with his soon-to-be-wife, paired with captions like ‘love of my life’, ‘forever is near’, and all that other sweet, sticky bullshit that never sounded like him.

Did you ever message him? Fuck no. He didn’t either. But you knew he watched. Every photo in lingerie. Every snapshot in a stranger’s bed. Every bouquet you didn’t even like. It was all a message. ‘I’m stronger.’, ‘I’m colder.’, ‘I’m better.’

And now - this night. Tomorrow, he gets married. Tomorrow, he swears eternal love. Tomorrow, he says “I do” to someone who doesn’t even know the sound of his voice when he’s coming undone.

And then - a knock at the door.

No, it wasn’t like one of those cheap soap operas where the lead actress starts whispering, ‘Who could it be?’

You knew. You knew before your feet even moved. You knew before your hands reached for the doorknob. You didn’t have time to prepare. Didn’t need it.

When the door creaked open, the first thing you felt - was your heart fucking halt in your chest.

There he was. Soaked to the bone. Breath reeking of cheap whiskey you could smell from across the damn hallway. Eyes locked on you like you were something he shouldn’t be touching. But couldn’t stop craving.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re getting married. Tomorrow. What the fuck are you doi…”

But he didn’t let you finish.

“Shut up. Just… shut up for a second.”

He muttered it drunk as hell, closing his eyes like he was trying to erase you from memory.

Silence. Long. Ugly. Like a cigarette dying in your throat. Like dried blood on your mouth. Like love, buried in a shallow grave.

Everything inside you screamed - Shut the door.

But you didn’t.

You never fucking did.