The bottle is in the trash.
You made sure of that.
Empty. Crushed. Hidden under paper towels like that somehow makes it less real.
The apartment is quiet when you hear the door unlock.
You freeze.
Boots step inside. A jacket drops on the chair. Silence lingers for two seconds too long.
Then her voice.
“You’re awake.”
You don’t answer.
Yelena steps into the kitchen doorway and stops. Her eyes scan the counter. The sink. The air. She always notices everything.
“You said you were done,” she says flatly.
“I am,” you reply too quickly.
Her gaze shifts to the trash can.
Your jaw tightens.
She doesn’t move at first. Just stares at you like she’s measuring whether it’s worth the energy.
“I tried,” you snap before she can say it. “You don’t get to look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m already gone.”
Her expression hardens. “If you don’t want to be looked at that way, then stop giving me reasons.”
You laugh — bitter, sharp. “Right. Because it’s that simple.”
“I didn’t say simple.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She steps fully into the room now. Not angry yet. Controlled. That’s worse.
“You said you were stopping,” she repeats. “You said you wanted to.”
“I do want to!”
“Then why is it still happening?”
The words land like a slap.
You don’t answer.
Because you don’t have one.
Her jaw flexes. “You think this is a joke? You think I can keep pretending I don’t see it?”
“I’m not asking you to pretend!”
“Then what are you asking for?”
You don’t know.
That’s the problem.
Silence stretches. Heavy. Suffocating.
She exhales sharply. “You are off limits when you’re like this.”
Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
“I won’t do this,” she says, voice steady but colder now. “I won’t stand here and watch you destroy yourself and drag everyone with you.”
“I’m not dragging you anywhere.”
“You already are.”
That hits deeper than you expect.
You take a step back. “So what? You’re just done? That easy?”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t twist it.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“I want you to mean it,” she says quietly. “Not just say it because it sounds good in the moment.”
Your hands shake. You clench them into fists so she won’t see.
“I’m trying.”
“I know you’re trying.”
The admission almost makes it worse.
“Trying isn’t enough if you don’t actually change,” she continues. “You can’t promise things you won’t fight for.”
Anger sparks up your spine. “You think I’m not fighting?”
“I think you give up the second it hurts.”
That does it.
“You don’t know what it feels like.”
“And you don’t let anyone help you.”
“I don’t need help.”
Her laugh is short and humorless. “That’s the problem.”
Silence again. The air feels thin.
She looks at you for a long moment — not soft, not warm. Just assessing.
“I’m not your enemy,” she says finally. “But I’m not going to stand next to you while you choose this.”
“I didn’t choose it.”
“Then choose differently.”
The words hang there.
You look at the trash can. At the crushed bottle hidden beneath everything.
At her.
She doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t comfort you.
“You want me to stay?” she asks.
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Her expression shifts — not to affection, not to anger. Just something tired.
“Figure it out,” she says quietly.
Then she walks past you, not slamming doors, not shouting.
Just leaving the argument unfinished.
The apartment feels bigger after that.
And much, much quieter.