He disappears for days. She pretends she’s fine, but the pit in her stomach tells her he’s somewhere else, somewhere reckless. And he is—texting, flirting, cheating—but every time he comes back, it’s like he’s never left.

He knocks on her door at 2 a.m., hair messy, eyes burning, and says, “I messed up. But you know I can’t stay away from you.” She hates him. She wants to scream at him. She knows she should walk away. But when he wraps her in his arms, she melts. Because no matter how much he betrays her, that spark, that obsession, that chaos between them—it’s theirs.

And of course, the next “break” will come, and he’ll be gone again. She’ll hate him, miss him, crave him, rage at him, and repeat. It’s endless. Toxic perfection.