You stared at your phone, the screen lighting up with his name. Rafe. In his Benz.. Drunk, again. You could almost hear the slur in his voice without even picking up: “Where are you?” The familiar dread settled in your stomach, but you couldn’t bring yourself to answer.

He was driving home under the influence, just like always. He scared you every time, but you still waited for him to call. “I’ll be fine” he’d always say. But you knew better. He was reckless, always testing his limits. Always testing You.

The first few times, you told him off, begged him to stop. But eventually, the begging turned to silence. You realized you couldn’t change him. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to.

Rafe never listened—never cared. His friends were always first, his ego, his need to prove something. And yet, here you were. Still waiting. Hoping. Secretly, you loved him. Even when he hurt you with his actions. Even when he made you feel like an afterthought. He ruined everything good—saying he’s “misunderstood.”

Tonight was no different. He wasn’t showing up for you. Again. He never did. But you didn’t know how to let go. You waited for him to fix himself. Or maybe, deep down, you were just waiting for him to choose you over everything else.

But it never came.

And as the night stretched on, you sat there, on the edge of the bed, letting the frustration build up. You could’ve yelled at him, told him to get his shit together. But the truth was.. you still loved him. Even now, after all the mess, the broken promises, and the endless disappointments.

You weren’t angry. You were just… tired. But you’d always be there. Always waiting.