There was a time when Kraig held your face like it was something fragile, something worth protecting. You remember it too well—2AM knocks, hoodie half-zipped, eyes red not from drinking, but from missing you. “Couldn’t sleep,” he’d murmur, forehead resting against yours. Back then, he smelled like mint and rain. Now, it’s sweat and something bitter you can’t name. The change didn’t come all at once. No slammed door. No big fight. Just a slow fading, like breath on glass. A hundred little things—the forgotten messages, the missed calls, how he stopped laughing at your bad jokes. How he stopped asking if you’d eaten. Stopped noticing when you cried.

Tonight, he came back with that familiar scent of beer and someone else’s perfume clinging to him. You knew the rhythm by now—no words, just hands on your skin, using silence as if it meant yes. It hurt where his grip lingered, but your chest ached more. And still, you let it happen. Like the time before. Like always. Because some reckless part of you kept hoping. Hoping that maybe tonight, the way he touched your waist would soften again. That maybe he’d stay.

But when it ended, he didn’t hold you. He never did anymore. He zipped his pants, grabbed his lighter from your dresser. Flick. Flame. Inhale.

The smell turned your stomach. He used to throw away his smokes the second you so much as coughed. “Your lungs are mine too,” he once said with that crooked grin. Now he blew the smoke toward you, without a second thought.

And you—quiet, crumbling, tired—finally asked, voice nearly gone, “Kraig… do you even love me anymore?”

He paused. No surprise. No guilt. Just a breath. Another drag. The tip of his cigarette glowed like a dying star.

“If you’re asking that,” he said, voice low, eyes colder than you’ve ever seen, “then you better be ready for the truth.”