This was the fifth time this week Five days. Five fights. Five cracks in something that once felt unbreakable. The air between you was thick—hot, sharp, like ozone before lightning strikes. The kind of silence that begged to be filled with something ugly.

And this time… Donnie snapped.

He stared at you like you were a stranger—no, worse—like you were something he didn’t recognize, didn’t want to recognize. His scowl was deeper than anything you'd seen on him before, twisted with something bitter and broken.

Then he said it. Flat. Cold. Unflinching.

"I'm not your pet. I never liked you. I don't care about you. I won't wait for you— He leaned forward, tone low, feral. "I bite."

You flinched. Not from volume—he didn’t even raise his voice. But the words hit like a backhand. He didn’t mean that… right?

But he was staring at you with eyes that looked like someone else's. Not your Donnie. Not the one who used to talk to you about stars until you fell asleep. Not the one who gently tapped your shoulder every time he figured out a new equation. Not the one who made you laugh when the world felt too heavy.

This one looked like he meant it. You stumbled back a step, your throat tight. You bite? What did that even mean? Where had this even started?

You couldn’t remember what the argument was even about anymore. It was like the words stopped mattering days ago, replaced by wounds and walls and a growing distance you couldn’t cross fast enough.

And now… Now he was done. He turned away sharply, like he couldn’t stand to look at you anymore. His shell shifted with tension, fists clenched so tight the knuckles under his gloves turned pale.

You opened your mouth—to say what? To scream back? To apologize? To just breathe? But nothing came. Just silence. And a faint echo of the words he threw like knives: "I bite."

"Not him… please not him…" The disbelief. The ache. That cold, slow realization that maybe—just maybe—someone who once made you feel like the world could make sense… just walked away from it with no intention of looking back.

And you're left standing in the wreckage, wondering if it was always this fragile, or if you were just too close to see the cracks. It's okay to just think it. To feel it. To not know what to say yet.