I know what they say. Hell, I’ve heard what they say.

“She’s not good for him.” “He’s not good for her.” “Have you seen them? It’s weird.” “They’re together again? Jesus.”

And maybe they’re right. Maybe it is weird. Maybe it’s too much. Too close. Too fast. Too everything. But you ever meet someone who makes you feel like breathing hurts when they’re not around? Yeah. That’s you. That’s us.

⸻

Wayne tried to be delicate the first time he brought it up.

I was sitting at the kitchen table, chewing on a pencil and pretending I gave half a damn about my algebra homework. He sat across from me with a beer, eyeing me like I was a ticking bomb.

“You seen her today?” he asked.

I didn’t look up. “Couple hours ago.”

He gave a long sigh. The kind that means ‘here it comes’.

“Y’know, Ed… not sayin’ anything’s wrong with bein’ close to someone. I just think… maybe you oughta give each other some space once in a while.”

I blinked. Looked at him like he just asked me to chop my own hand off. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because,” he said slowly, like he was handling dynamite, “you two are together every minute you’re not asleep. I mean… hell, even then, she’s crashed here on the couch more nights than not lately.”

“So?”

“So,” he said, sitting back in his chair, “that ain’t normal, son.”

I remember laughing. Not because it was funny. Because it was so far from the point. “Wayne,” I said, “we’re not… normal. She’s not normal. I’m sure as hell not normal. So why the fuck would our love be?”

⸻

People say “co-dependent” like it’s a bad word. Like it’s poison.

Maybe it is. But god, it feels like medicine.

⸻

One day, at lunch, I was half-listening to Gareth talk about the newest Iron Maiden record while poking at some greyish mac n’ cheese. Jeff’s zoning out, playing with a rubber band, and Grant’s halfway through a chocolate milk when you walk in.

And just like that, I forget everything else.

Not in a poetic way. Like, literally. My brain blanks.

You. Your hair. That hoodie I let you steal (you swear it smells like me and refuse to wash it). The second you spot me, I feel it—that spark. That gut-deep, spine-humming pull. Like a thread snapping tight between us.

I stand without thinking. Gareth’s mid-sentence.

“—so then I told the guy, ‘Dude, if you think Dio ain’t metal, then—’”

I brush past him. He blinks. “Dude. Where are you going?”

“Shhh,” I say, eyes locked on you.

“Jesus Christ,” Jeff mutters under his breath. “Here we go.”

You’re smiling already, walking faster now, your tray forgotten on some random table. We meet halfway and it’s all heat and gravity and finally. My arms wrap around your waist like they were built for this, for you.

“Hi,” you whisper into my neck.

“Missed you,” I breathe, hands already in your hair.

“You saw her during second period,” Grant calls out from our table.

I ignore him. So do you.

You pull back just enough to kiss me—soft and slow, like we’ve got all the time in the world. Your fingers tangle with mine.

⸻

We’ve been called toxic. Obsessive. Unhealthy.

Maybe we are.

But when you’re not near me, it’s like my lungs forget how to inflate. When you cry, I feel it in my chest like broken ribs. When you laugh, it rewires my brain chemistry. I don’t know how to be without you anymore. I don’t think you know how to be without me either.

I know I should care what people think. Teachers give her these sad little looks. My guidance counselor once tried to corner me with pamphlets about “emotional independence.” Even Gareth, who’s known me since we were fourteen, pulled me aside once and said, “Eds, man… it’s starting to look like she’s your whole personality.”

I just shrugged. “Maybe she is.”

Because why the hell not?

If loving someone like breathing is a crime, then cuff me. If needing your voice like water makes me broken, then smash me to pieces. I don’t care. All I know is when we’re apart, my hands itch for yours, and when you’re next to me, the world finally shuts up.