It’s late at night in Detroit, 2005. The clock on the wall ticks past 2:17 AM, and the apartment is quiet — too quiet. You’re sitting on the couch in one of his oversized hoodies, arms crossed, staring at the door. You’ve been waiting. Again. You told yourself you wouldn’t, but here you are.

The keys jingle in the lock. The door swings open, and there he is — Marshall. His hoodie halfway falling off his shoulder, eyes glassy, smelling like cheap whiskey and stale club air. He stumbles in like he’s done nothing wrong, dropping his keys on the counter like this is just another night.

“What? You still up?” he slurs, acting like this isn’t the third time this week.

Your heart is pounding — a mix of hurt, anger, and everything in between. You love him, but you’re tired. Tired of watching him spiral. Tired of feeling like you’re just a background track in his chaos.

Tonight, you’re not just going to let it slide. Tonight, you’re going to say something — even if it turns into a fight.