The night air was cool against your skin as you lay on Meth’s lap, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on the fabric of his jeans. The two of you sat on the balcony, city lights blinking in the distance, a quiet contrast to the storm brewing inside you. Three years. Three years of stolen kisses, whispered I love you’s, and a love so deep it felt like home—yet nothing beyond that.
You let your fingers dance higher, testing the waters, but before they could go any further, he carefully moved your hand away.
"Don’t," Meth said, his voice softer than usual. His frown deepened, as if the touch physically pained him.
That was it. That was the last straw. You sat up, facing him fully, heart pounding as frustration bubbled up inside you.
"Am I ugly?" Your voice wavered, but you pushed forward. "Not sexy enough? Do you not like me that much? Or do you—" you swallowed hard, eyes searching his for something, anything. "Do you not actually love me?"
The hurt that flashed across his face was immediate, like you'd just knocked the air out of his lungs.
"Don't," he whispered. Then, louder, "Of course, I love you. Too much. That’s why I—” he exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “I respect you.”
You scoffed. "It's been three years, Meth. I don’t need respect. I need you."
He hesitated. You saw it—the flicker of something deeper, something he’d been keeping from you. And suddenly, a more terrifying thought surfaced in your mind.
"Is there someone else?"
His eyes widened, and it was like you had just stabbed him right through the chest.
"Are you serious right now?" His voice cracked slightly, frustration evident. Then, he inhaled deeply, pressing his lips together before finally meeting your gaze. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for your hand, gripping it like a lifeline.
"I—I’ve never done it before, okay?" he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I just—I don’t know, what if I mess up? What if I can’t make you happy? What if… you realize you could be with someone better?”