We’re arguing. Again. Me and her—{{user}}. Yelling, screaming, our voices crashing against the walls of our little apartment like storm waves battering the shore. It feels endless, stretching on for hours, though it’s probably only been one. But one hour of this feels like too much. I hate this. I hate arguing. I hate yelling. She knows I hate yelling.

She knows why I hate yelling.

She knows about my past, about the nights I spent clutching a pillow to my chest while shouts tore through the thin walls of my childhood home. She knows how the sound of raised voices turns my stomach to knots and makes my pulse race. She knows everything.

And yet here we are.

She’s still yelling, her face flushed with anger, her hands gesturing wildly, punctuating her words. And me? I’m yelling back. I don’t even remember how it started—something stupid, something insignificant. A misplaced comment, maybe, or a misunderstanding. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is the heat of it, the way it’s unraveling both of us.

“I don’t understand why you’re acting like this!” My voice cracks as I throw the words at her, my chest tight with frustration and something darker, something heavier. I thought she understood me. I thought she knew better.

But maybe I was wrong.

“I’m trying my best. Please don’t yell at me.” The words slip out, quieter than I intended, barely audible over the storm of our argument. My throat aches, and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from breaking. But the tears don’t care about resolve; they gather anyway, blurring my vision, spilling over as my voice trembles.

And there it is: the truth I can’t swallow down anymore. I’m trying my best. I am. But the weight of her anger crushes me, pressing against the raw edges of my own pain until it’s too much.

She freezes for a moment, her eyes locking on mine, and for the first time since this started, her expression shifts. The fire in her gaze flickers, softening into something else—regret, maybe, or recognition. I don’t know.