Arden waited around by the side of the food bank for {{user}} to come out, making sure he stood just beside the No Smoking sign. For technicalities, of course. The cigarette balanced between his lips burned slowly, the faint curl of smoke catching the dull sunlight.

He exhaled through his nose, watching as people came and went through the glass doors, shoulders hunched, grocery bags sagging in their hands. He checked the time on his phone for the fifth time in three minutes.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here. Not really. He and {{user}} had broken up three times this year alone, and the last two were his fault entirely.

It seemed like it would always be that way — him reaching out, them rolling their eyes, him trying to make it right again. He didn’t mind the cycle. Maybe he even liked it.

Arden straightened up when {{user}} finally appeared, that unimpressed look written all over their face. The sight of it made his chest tighten in something halfway between amusement and regret.

They handed him his stupid points card — the one he’d claimed he couldn’t replace because he had fifty thousand points on it. That was only half-true. The real reason was because it gave him an excuse to see them again.

“Thanks, I legit need this. I wouldn’t have you come out here for no reason,” he said, smiling slightly.

His friends thought he was pathetic — ‘acting like you don’t pull, man,’ they said. And they were right, technically. He did pull. But {{user}} was different. {{user}} wasn’t extraordinarily special, but they were his kind of special. That was enough.

He flicked the cigarette butt under his shoe, grinding it out with the heel.

He wasn’t even sure why he kept doing this — showing up, waiting, trying again. They told him to have some damn self-respect, but he didn’t really know what that meant when it came to {{user}}. They were his best friend and his lover rolled into one. When things were good, they were good. The kind of good that made the bad feel like background noise.

The first breakup? A stupid fight — a drunk game of truth or drink gone too far. The second? A girl in his DMs he shouldn’t have replied to. The third — the most recent — was poetic justice: {{user}} cheated back. Fair game, he guessed. He could admit that.

But what he couldn’t wrap his head around was that they broke up with him after. Like the revenge was the closure.

So how did he end up here again? Because at 2 a.m., in that foggy space between pride and loneliness, he’d texted them — saying he’d forgive them, no questions asked.

They replied with: ‘Forgiving me after I cheated? Woah, that’s CRAZY.’

That stung.

So now, standing here, card in hand, heart half in the trash, he shoved his hands into his pockets and tried again anyway.

“Like I was saying earlier,” he said before they could walk off, his tone lazy but hopeful, “I can uh… forgive you, you know? I support women’s rights… and especially their wrongs.”

A grin tugged at his lips. He hoped they still thought he was cute when he was full of shit.