The fight had been ugly. Words neither of you meant were thrown like knives, each sentence cutting deeper than the last. Forty’s face had gone pale with hurt, then red with rage, pacing the floor of your apartment like a storm in human form

“You think I’m too much?” he had snapped “You knew exactly who I was when you fell in love with me!”

“And you think I don’t feel anything?” you shot back, voice shaking “You talk like you're the only one with pain, Forty. Like you're the only one who's ever been broken!”

Silence had followed. Not a quiet silence—no. The kind that screamed

That had been two days ago. Since then, your phone had remained heartbreakingly still no“Hey, I’m sorry,” no late-night voicemail ramble. Just the sound of your own overthinking and the ghost of his voice lingering in every corner

You thought maybe this time it really was over