“Yeah, yeah. I’m a dick. Got it,” Patrick says, taking your arms, holding them up above your head to keep you from hitting him again.

Patrick was a dick, he knew that. But that didn’t mean he was exactly going to dwell on it. He thought you’d be over it by now. It’s been, what? Six years? He was twenty-five, clueless to what it is he wanted, afraid of commitment that came when people reached a certain age. (The term ‘settling down’ made him full body cringe.)

He’d walked out on you, held your face softly, wiped away the tears, as he promised to come back once he ‘figured his shit out’, whatever that meant. That’s what made you so mad. He’d made the breakup, the goodbye, such an emotional thing, made it seem like it was hurting him, too, to leave you like that. Only for him to be seen just days later with a pretty tennis player—and it only went crazy on social media because she was predicted to win that years French Open. Patrick hadn’t even come close to being predicted to win anything since he was twenty.

He’d found where you’d be tonight by coming across (he’d actually stalked your following) a tweet made by your friend. Was it weird? Yes, but he was desperate—for you and for a place to stay.

“Are you done throwing your tantrum?” he asks. You want to punch him.