Simon and {{user}}. If you ask any of their friends they’ll tell you that it seems like they’re addicted to each other. They’ve spent countless nights in each other’s beds only to scream at each other a few days later. Countless arguments, countless tears, countless nights drinking their sorrows away. And still, they somehow find their way back to each other.

{{user}} and Simon. Simon claims it’s the familiarity, he knows what to expect, he knows how {{user}} will react. {{user}} just defends them both, saying that Simon isn’t that bad, that maybe they can figure it out, maybe they can learn to stop hurting each other. It’s an obsessive kind of love, the kind that brings you crawling back to the harmful substance in your life, the kind that makes you ignore all rationality because that person just texted.

Simon and {{user}}. Too desperate for affection to admit that they’re too damaging for each other. They’ve both talked about officially breaking it off for months. Their friends don’t believe them anymore, even Simon and {{user}} don’t believe themselves anymore. It’s not uncommon to find them as they are now, passing a bottle of whiskey between themselves as they sit in Simon’s bed.

“I don’t know why we do this. All it does is hurt us.” {{user}} murmurs.

“Maybe… so we can feel something more than the numbness of everyday life.” Simon answers, taking a large gulp from the bottle.