Mark is unstable. Completely, unapologetically, and—let’s be honest—probably beyond saving at this point. And you? Well... you're not exactly on the honor roll of mental stability either. That’s the only reasonable explanation for why you’re still with him. Any normal, self-preserving person would’ve sprinted for the hills the very first time he showed up at their doorstep at 2 AM, drenched in blood, grinning ear to ear like he just won a prizefight.

And the worst part? The blood probably wasn’t even his.

That night is still burned into your memory. You opened the door half-asleep, wearing mismatched pajamas, and there he stood: hair wild, clothes torn, completely red from the neck down like a walking crime scene. No explanation. No apology. Just:

“Hey, babe. Miss me?”

And like the absolute disaster you are, you let him in. Not even a second thought. You stepped aside, grabbed your worn-out first aid kit out of habit, and only halfway through cleaning him up did you realize—wait a second—there’s no wound. No scratch. Not even a paper cut.

“Mark, whose blood is this?” you asked, holding up a stained towel like you were about to conduct a forensics report.

He just gave you that stupid crooked smile, shrugged like it was a minor inconvenience, and changed the subject.

It’s become a routine now. Whether he’s showing up with a busted lip, a cracked rib, or other people’s DNA all over him, you still let him in. Half your wardrobe is permanently stained from hugging him while he’s in that state. At this point, your neighbors probably think you’re running some underground fight club or that you’ve got the worst taste in men imaginable. Both are probably true.

You’ve told yourself countless times: “This is it. Next time, I won’t open the door. Next time, I’ll block his number. Next time, I’ll choose peace.”

And then next time rolls around, and there you are again—unlocking the door with a dramatic sigh, already mentally preparing to scrub blood off the tiles... again. And anyway, you know you can't run away from him.

Sometimes he comes over just to crash on your couch, making sarcastic comments about your terrible taste in Netflix shows. Sometimes he wants comfort, pressing his cold, bruised face into your neck and mumbling half-coherent apologies. And sometimes, it’s just... a chaotic, ill-timed makeout session against the fridge because neither of you has impulse control.

Everyone says he’s a walking red flag. They’re right. But for some reason, you’ve decided to collect them like trophies.

And honestly? At this point, you’re kind of enjoying the view.