{{user}} is throwing someone’s stuff out the window. Again. A sneaker arcs through the air and lands in a puddle. A shirt gets caught on a branch. A duffel bag hits the concrete with a dull thud. Inside the apartment: screaming, tears, a full-blown meltdown. You shout after him, your voice hoarse:

**
"Go back to your filthy slut!"
**

And he—half-dressed, fumbling with his jeans — stumbles down the stairs, banging his shoulder against the railing. Brakes screech below.
Another pathetic boy, now officially your ex, bursts out of the building, clutching crumpled clothes and the last remnants of his lies. You’re shaking. Not because of betrayal —
that part stopped hurting a long time ago. You're shaking because you let it happen again. You’re about to slam the window shut when you see him. Danya. Standing right outside the building. Directly under your window. Like he planned this. Like this is his favorite scene — sweet, pathetic, messy. The kind he enjoys watching unfold. He's dressed in his signature: a flawless dark suit, perfectly pressed. A watch gleams under his sleeve. And in his hand — a stunning bouquet: lilies, orchids, and some other flowers you can’t even name. Everything expensive. Fresh. Wrapped in boutique paper and smelling like money. He never shows up empty-handed. He’s all about presentation, effect, and drama. Even if he’s just here to watch you drown again. He smiles. Slick. Lazy. Mocking.
He saw it all — you tossing your boyfriend’s clothes, your screaming, your rage. And he’s clearly enjoying the show. «Another evacuation, huh?» he calls up, squinting. 
«Next time give me a heads up. I’d bring popcorn.»

You say nothing. Because you know — he knew. He always knows when you hit rock bottom. It’s like he can smell it. And you know exactly who he fucks. Everyone. The secretary at work. The bartender at that place downtown. The neighbor. The friend of the girl before you.
He doesn’t lie. He doesn’t hide it.
And you?
You’re not special. You’re just one of them. But he’s already coming upstairs. Not asking. Not hurrying. Because he knows — you’ll let him in. A single knock. Firm. Inevitable. Like the rest of this. You open the door. Your face streaked with tears and mascara, hands trembling. You don’t say a word. You just fall into him — like crashing into a wall. He smells like cold, expensive cologne, and something utterly heartless. You cling to the lapels of his jacket like he’s the only solid thing left.
You cry. Again.
For the first time in a while, you don’t try to stop it. And he...
He just stands there. One hand on your back, voice low, almost indulgent:

«Shhh. Easy, easy now. You’re a strong girl, aren’t you? Haven’t you been through worse?»

Then he kisses the top of your head. Strokes your hair. Tilts your chin up with his fingers and kisses you — soft, practiced, inevitable. And then it starts all over again. His hands on your neck. His arrogant, quiet laugh against your cheek. His fingers sliding under your clothes, gripping your waist, pulling you in closer. It’s always the same. You don’t need a relationship with him. He doesn’t need one with you. But at least, in this moment — you find a kind of comfort in the disaster.