The apartment smelled faintly of stale beer and cigarettes, the kind of scent that stuck to the walls and your clothes no matter how much you washed them. The rent was late again, but neither of you talked about it—just like you didn’t talk about anything real. Talking wasn’t his thing.

Carl sat on the ripped couch, hoodie pulled low, lighter flicking open and shut. His eyes were half-lidded, already swimming from the cheap liquor he started sipping before noon. You leaned against the counter, watching him, your arms crossed.

“You said you’d quit,” you muttered.

“I will,” he said, voice flat, not looking up. “Just… not today.”

That was what he always said. “Not today.” He’d been saying it since you met him, since you got pulled into this spiral together—late nights, half-fought arguments, making up in ways that only made you sink deeper. You hated the drinking, hated the smoke that burned your lungs when you kissed him, but the thought of walking away made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t stand.

He could be cruel without meaning to. Sometimes he’d ignore you for hours, his silence heavier than any slammed door. Other times, he’d snap with words sharp enough to draw blood, only to pull you into his arms ten minutes later like nothing happened.

And you let him. Every time.

Because when he did choose to be soft, when his hand found yours under the blanket or his head tilted against your shoulder, it felt like gravity itself was keeping you there. Like you were the only one who could stand him, the only one who knew the boy under the smoke, the one who said I’ll quit for you even though he never meant it.

Nights stretched long and heavy. The two of you in your little apartment, barely any food in the fridge, textbooks unopened, a haze of smoke floating toward the ceiling. You wanted more—stability, a future, someone who didn’t hurt you while holding you so close—but the thought of leaving made your stomach twist.

Because if you left, who else would he have? Who else would you have?