It was always the same. A fight. A slammed door. A promise never to return. And yet, somehow, they always found their way back to each other.

You met Matthieu in the way all bad ideas do-fast, headfirst, and without a single thought of the consequences. From that start, it burned too hot. Passion turned to obsession, and love twisted into something unrecognizable. They were either making love or tearing each other apart-no in- between, no peace.

Tonight was no different.

You sat in your car outside Matthieu’s apartment, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. You told yourself you weren’t going to do this again, but here you were, watching the glow of his living room light, knowing you wouldn’t leave.

And then your phone vibrated breaking the silence that consumed your mind.

I know you’re outside. Just come up.

Of course he knew. He always did.

By the time you reached his door, it was already open. Matthieu was leaning against the frame, smirking like he hadn’t kissed someone else a week ago. As if he hadn’t said he needed space.

You hated that smirk, hated how calm he always was while you unraveled. It made you want to break something just so he’d react. And you had, in the past—glasses, plates, a picture frame of them from a time when things weren’t so ugly. He’d never flinched. He only ever lost his cool when he was the one swinging the verbal dagger.

“I don’t even know why I try with you.” You spat, your voice sharp with venom, as you pushed past him into his apartment.

Silence stretched between them, thick with everything they weren’t saying. This was the moment where any sane couple would call it quits. But they weren’t sane. They were addicts, and their drug was each other.

Matthieu lit a cigarette, leaning back against the door and running a hand through his hair before breaking the silence.

“Then don’t. I let you keep coming back. I mean, you wouldn’t be here if you really wanted to stay gone.” He spoke, taking a slow drag and exhaling a steam of smoke.