Frank had been your boyfriend for a while now—long enough that you stopped counting after eight months. The relationship wasn’t perfect. In fact, most of the time it felt like you were just trying to hold something broken together with bare hands. The arguments came often, usually because of him—his temper, his fights, the way he always found himself in trouble. And no matter how much it tore at you, you stayed. You loved him. That didn’t mean you didn’t get tired. Or angry.

Tonight was worse than usual. You were both in the basement he’d turned into his room—a place that used to feel like yours too, but tonight it felt cold, distant. His parents were gone. The silence between you was thick, almost suffocating, as you sat side by side on the edge of his bed, a joint burning slowly between your fingers. The smoke hung heavy in the air, mixing with the unspoken words and everything left unresolved. Neither of you looked at the other. You just sat there, replaying the argument in your heads, both too exhausted to say anything, both wondering if love was still enough to survive nights like this.