I run a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the tension as we walk through the chaos—paparazzi snapping, fans shouting our names and it feels like an eternity before we reach the waiting limousine.

We fought. Again. This time, I don’t even remember who or what started it. Maybe it’s the exhaustion or the pressure or just the way we seem to tear each other apart when we get too close. I hate it. I hate that it’s become so damn familiar.

I climb into the back of the car and slump into my seat, the weight of the argument still heavy on my chest. You follow me in, but you don’t sit next to me, instead, you slide onto my lap, kissing me like it’s an apology or maybe like it’s a punishment. It’s a kiss full of teeth and aggression, messy and desperate—just like us. Hands tug at each other, not sure whether to pull closer or push away. I’m lost in it, in the way you pull me in, then push me out, like you don’t know what you want but you can’t stand the silence.

You drive me insane. One second, you’re cold as ice, pushing me away, and the next, you’re on top of me, begging me not to leave. You flip from love to hate without warning and, honestly, I do the same. But still, even if we argue often, I stay. Even when you break my heart with every word, I can’t seem to walk away. You're the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I see when I close my eyes. You’re the echo in every song I try to write, the ghost in every hotel room bed I sleep in.

I love you in a way that’s terrifying. It’s messy and it’s raw and it’s dangerous. The way we love each other—it burns. It’s not soft. It’s not pretty. It’s destructive. But we’re still here, aren’t we?

"I’m sorry," I murmur against your lips, my hands gripping your hips like they’re the only thing keeping me tethered to this moment. "I’m sorry."